Bad Timing
by Drama-Duchess
Summary: Greg Sanders is gunned down at a crime scene. Critically injured by a gunshot wound, he battles to stay alive as the team races to find the shooter. The impact of Greg's brush with death cause the others to realize his importance. Takes place season 8.
1. Shots Fired

Author's Note: I'm a huge fan of CSI and have followed it since the very first episode. I watch it religiously. But when it came to writing a CSI fan fic, I sort of chickened out. I didn't feel I was worthy enough to start one because the show itself is so brilliant that I could never do proper justice to it. I've hesitated a great deal. Then finally, I thought "What the heck – just do it. The worst case scenario - everyone hates it." But I hope you don't. This is my very first CSI fic so please be gentle.

This fic takes place during the most current season.

Title: Bad Timing

Chapter 1: Shots Fired

A loud crack of gunfire disturbed the stillness of a deserted side street right off Clark Avenue, a few blocks behind The Four Queens. Rows of condemned apartment buildings bearing wrought iron fire escapes ran down the lonely block. Several neglected rusty dumpsters were scattered about aimlessly giving light to the stench of rotting garbage. The movement of rats behind boarded walls scratched copiously for a way out and the noises were soon silenced by the deafening sound of gun fire.

A single bullet ripped through the CSI vest and entered his torso knocking him over backwards instantly. The pain was not evident immediately. There was a delay of some seconds before he actually felt the pain. In fact, he had no idea he was even shot until his back slammed against the pavement and the blood started pouring out. The smell of metal and burnt flesh filled his nostrils.

He had been preoccupied with talking on the cell phone and failed to notice that he was not alone in the alley. It was supposed to be perfectly safe to separate from the primary crime scene and go with any leads he may find around the perimeters. It wasn't his fault that he happened to find a small scatter of glass leading from the primary crime scene and into the alley. After all, wasn't it his job to follow the evidence?

The police had secured the area before the CSIs arrived on the scene - so technically, there were no reasons to fear anything out of the norm. But it was his decision to venture beyond the yellow tape. He should not have been too gullible in letting his guard down.

Before he could even cry out for help, the department-issued Motorola flip phone that he was cradling between his ear and shoulder flew out of his grasp and landed a few yards away from his processing kit.

"What the hell was that?" Nick exclaimed as he got up from a kneeling position. He had been bagging and tagging some unidentified fragments he found by the curb when the unexpected sound of gunfire erupted.

"It sounded like it came from over there." Warrick said as he reached for his gun. He already started making his way towards Cholla Street.

"Greg." Grissom said into his phone. "Greg?" He repeated with more stress in his tone.

There was no answer.

A few pieces of plastic chipped off as the phone slammed against the pavement. The spidery crack on the screen zigzagged from top to bottom. The lights flickered hesitantly before completely dying out.

Greg Sanders was lying face up on the pavement with blood gushing out of his wound. Breathing suddenly became a very difficult task. His heart thumped explosively in his chest forcing him to draw labored breaths. He tried to concentrate and look around for clues, but the images swam about him in slow motion.

He couldn't see the assailant's face. It was obscured by a grey hooded sweatshirt drawn over his head. He squinted at the direction of the person who shot him. Based on the agility and built, it was definitely a male, possibly late twenties to early thirties, about five ten, ethnicity – undetermined. The man bent over and picked up something near one of the dumpsters before quickly dashing away. Greg's vision blurred making it close to impossible to tell which way the suspect ran. Everything looked like one big jumble of watercolor.

Greg heard the scuffing sounds of multiple sets of feet quickly approaching. There was no doubt in his mind that those sets of feet belonged to his friends. He kept telling himself that things were going to be alright now that help arrived.

With weapons drawn, Warrick and Nick proceeded ahead with caution. Grissom jogged quickly behind, anxious to see what happened. They noticed Greg lying helplessly on the ground immediately. Their hearts raced as they scoured the area with a serious eye in hopes of spotting the assailant.

Through the stillness of the back street, it was apparent that the assailant, whomever he may be, had disappeared and was long gone. There were no traces of movement or cause for suspicion. In fact, the abandoned alley was riddled with dozens of escape routes. There were alleys that lead into other alleys and yards that lead into other yards. It was as web of possibilities.

"Greg!" Nick, being the first one to reach Greg, dropped down beside him. "Damn it, Greg. Damn it!" His shrill distraught voice cried desperately as he inspected the damage.

Greg was losing consciousness fast. He tried so hard to fight it. His heart was slowing down as it pumped more and more blood to the wound to flush out the bullet. Breathing became less labored and the desire for sleep became more dominant. His empty eyes stared at the sky as his life gradually slipped away.

"Greg?" Grissom said while nervously grabbing the young CSI by the collar. "Come on, stay with me."

The sudden shake from Grissom managed to keep Greg from going under. Greg saw the deep concern etched in Grissom's face. Time stood still. With every thud of his heart, it felt like the second hand on the clock dragged slower and slower.

"God, there's so much blood." Nick gasped in horror. His friend was dying and there was nothing he could do about it. He showed no hesitation in getting his hands dirty and applied direct pressure to the wound to deter the bleeding.

Warrick frantically radioed for paramedics. Bent over with hands on his knees, Warrick watched Greg inch towards death. It was hard to remain calm and collected when the victim was someone he knew so well.

Being years younger than the rest of the crew, Greg was everyone's little brother. His colleagues were not his co-workers. They were his friends. As much as he was teased for being "the runt of the litter", they had immense respect for him and were glad he was a part of the team. Whether or not he knew it, everyone became overly protective of him, especially after the whole Demetrius James catastrophe last year.

Greg had the integrity and smarts but with only about two years under his belt, he was still very new to the world of being a field investigator. It was very different than what he was used to, which was essentially the comfort of a boxed-in laboratory. Working out in the field was very different than burrowing behind his high tech ultra-centrifuges and high powered microscopes in an air conditioned crime lab. A field investigator required puzzle solving, theory analysis, and interaction with people. These were skills that Greg needed to polish.

He had the utmost respect and admiration for his shift supervisor. After all, it was Gil Grissom, who took him under his wing and taught him the ropes. He still had so much to learn from Grissom. There were no regrets and Greg couldn't be happier pursuing a profession that he ultimately enjoyed. This was where he wanted to be. He had an appetite for challenge – perhaps this was a little more than he bargained for.

Warrick's sweaty grip on the hand radio grew tighter as he watched Greg's blood seep through Nick's fingers. He couldn't believe that this was happening. It was only a couple hours ago when he and Greg grabbed a quick bite at Paco's Tacos before their shifts started. Warrick remembered how they goofed around and competed on who could fit two tacos in their mouth. Greg was so alive and animated. Now, that same Greg was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

"You cannot go to sleep. Do you hear me?" Grissom said. "Sanders, that's an order." He added firmly, hoping rank and seniority would convince Greg not to give in.

"What the hell happened? Who did this to you?" Nick blurted as if expecting Greg to start talking to him on the spot. He choked on his words.

If anyone knew Nick Stokes at all, they would know that it took an awful lot to break him. He was a strong-willed, intelligent, brave, compassionate man, who possessed a good sense of principle. He wasn't perfect and, like any man, he had his flaws and made his share of mistakes. But he was noble and had a heart of gold.

Nick believed the impact of one great life-changing event was all it took to shed new light on the meaning of existence. Things were never quite the same after being buried alive. The severe physical and mental torture was indescribable. No one would have been able to bear the punishment the way he had. Certain things still triggered flashbacks and made him rather uncomfortable but he never allowed it to interfere with his work. In fact, there was a period of time where he immersed himself in nothing but work. He wanted to be so exhausted that there were no given opportunities to think. This form of foolish therapy worked for a short while but was an overall unsuccessful way of avoiding the truth. It took many shrink sessions to set him in the right direction again. It wasn't easy. And now, seeing his young friend clinging to life made all the anguish and despair return.

"Help is on the way. You're going to be fine." Nick said to Greg. Somehow, he didn't actually believe Greg was going to be fine. He was so messed up and by the looks of things, it could go either way. Nick tried to get a grip on himself and be optimistic for Greg's sake.

The mixture of voices and sounds made very little sense. Greg needed to tell Grissom something. He opened his mouth to speak but any a few grunts came out.

"Grr-hiss." Greg purred as he tried to form words.

"Greg?" Grissom leaned closer. His eyes focused on Greg's lips.

"Muh-Man." Greg whispered with great difficulty. He made attempt after attempt to enunciate words but instead, the painfully incoherent sounds were impossible to understand. One of his trembling fists grabbed a hold of Grissom's collar in deep frustration.

"T-to-hook so-th-ing" Greg struggled. He said with an agonizing cough. Aggravated, he let out a heart wrenching sob.

There were two words that haunted him – Demetrius James. Roughly a year had passed since it happened, but he remembered it like it was yesterday. One doesn't easily forget something that traumatic. Not only did he survive a vicious beating, he was consumed with the guilt of having taken someone's life. Life was tough on Greg for a while but he eventually pulled through. If it wasn't for his friends, he would've clearly drowned in the frenzy of trials, tedious hearings, and gruesome accusations.

There was no use in pretending that everything was going to be alright this time. He may have survived the aftermath of being jumped and the Demetrius James ordeal but he was no match for a bullet. People die easily from gunshot wounds. He had to accept the facts and the facts were not promising at this point. He was going to die.

"You're not a quitter, Greg. You've come too far for that." Nick said defiantly as he continued to apply pressure to the wound with both hands.

"Grrr-hiss." Greg whimpered. His grip on Grissom's collar softened.

"What are you trying to say?" Grissom asked. "What did you see?"

At that moment Grissom noticed something in Greg's eyes that sent chills down his spine. Greg's big doe brown eyes became dark and hollow, like as if he knew his life was going to be over in a matter of seconds. He was sorry that his friends had to see him suffer. Even more so, he was sorry that they had to watch him die. He never expected to go out this way. It wasn't something that could have been prevented. Death was a mysterious subject.

"Greg, I know what you're thinking and it's not right. I don't want you to give up, ok?" Grissom spoke authoritatively. Suddenly, it was Holly Gribbs all over again. The horrific images of that day came back in full blast. "After Holly, no one's allowed to die on my shift – not Nick, not Sara. And certainly not you." He must not allow it to come to that for the youngest member of the team. He winced as if feeling Greg's pain.

"What's taking the medics so long?" Warrick shouted into his hand radio shortly after hearing Greg's scratchy cough. He was plagued with the unpleasant idea that Greg could be choking on his own blood. His semi-panicked voice was followed by a wave of static over the radio. A voice reassured him that the paramedics were on their way.

Just as Warrick released the talk button on his radio, EMS sirens could be heard from a distance.

"Hang on, hang on." Warrick pleaded. "Tough it out." He muttered.

Warrick Brown was born and raised in Las Vegas. Unlike Nick, he didn't come from a wealthy background. He was brought up by a strict grandmother in the ghettos of North Las Vegas. Life was hard. They lived in a cramped third floor apartment on Craig Road, east of the I-15. The low income apartment building wasn't exactly an ideal place for children but anything was better than sleeping on the streets. Warrick didn't have much, except for an overprotective grandmother who was determined to straighten him up and keep him out of the gutter.

Whenever he got into any sort of trouble that required his grandmother to come bail him out, he received a well-deserved whooping the minute they got home. He had plenty of those to make it memorable enough to last a lifetime.

He was a scrawny dark-skinned boy with beautiful green eyes that hid behind bottle-cap glasses. Often bullied and teased at school, he was always caught fighting, which in turn repeatedly got him sent to the principal's office. Detention became a casual word in his vocabulary and a sore derriere became somewhat of a routine. Perhaps his grandmother's method of discipline would be a bit harsh for this day and age, but it sure worked on Warrick back then. He still frequently made jokes about his phobia of twelve inch Westcott wood rulers.

Warrick had street smarts and knew not to linger around certain places long enough to get mugged or shot. North Las Vegas was a transient neighborhood and an even "less desirable" place to live. During broad daylight, it was tolerable. But after sunset, shady people milled the streets baiting trouble. Warrick knew the area like the back of his hand. He learned all the safe routes and ways to escape trouble. It was survival and helped tremendously during his days as a casino runner.

Survival was probably the thing he clearly understood. He overcame his gambling addiction. After all, it wasn't his fault that math happened to be his strongest suit. There was nothing wrong with counting cards, or at least so he thought. He survived the crash, as well as the burn. Greg's case, however, was grim.

"Here they are!" Warrick exclaimed as he spotted the ambulance. With lights flashing and sirens wailing, the ambulance rolled to a complete stop a few feet away from where they stood.

"It's gonna be ok, Greg." Nick said affectionately, treating Greg like the kid brother he never had. Nick was the youngest of seven children. With five older sisters and one older brother, he had plenty of people watching his back. Life didn't give him the opportunity to be a big brother. Things sort of changed when Greg made CSI level 1.

Meanwhile, Grissom held a stern face as he stared at Greg shivering on the ground slowly fading into shock. On the outside, he appeared unaffected by it all but down inside, he was just as hysterical as Nick and Warrick. He had his own way of dealing with things.

Dr. Gilbert Grissom was more than just the team's shift supervisor. He shared a special bond with his subordinates. Having grown rather attached to his team through the years, he felt they were his responsibility. He would do anything in his power to protect them. Warrick, Nick, and Greg were like his surrogate children and Catherine, like a surrogate sister. He knew how hard to push them to maximize their potential. He gave them advice when they sought it, pulled strings when they got into jams, and gave them second and third chances when they needed them.

Just because he didn't succumb immediately to vulnerability didn't mean he was heartless. In fact, he cared immensely – sometimes, a little too much. It had nothing to do with professionalism. Rather, it was just the Gil Grissom way. Greg's situation was getting worst by the minute and it horrified him.

With a solemn expression and lips pursed, Grissom stood watching the paramedics work on Greg. The kid's shirt was mutilated to reveal a bloody chest. Swift in their actions, the paramedics went through several blood-soaked gauze pads before getting a hold on the situation. Greg was barely conscious when they loaded him into the ambulance.

Perhaps it was temporary shock or a lack of knowing what to do next. Grissom appeared lost to the world. He knew things were happening around him but all of it seemed unreal, like as if he was watching a movie unfold before his eyes. This was serious. It was life or death. Somewhere in the haze, he heard Nick say something about riding with Greg in the ambulance. Warrick said something to him but he didn't hear it.

"Grissom, you ok?" Warrick finally said after Grissom did not respond.

"Huh? Oh, I'm fine." Grissom broke out of his trance when Warrick touched his shoulder. "What did you say?"

"Brass is on his way. But we're not done processing the crime scene." Warrick said like as if he was torn between completing his job and being with Greg at the hospital. "I'll wrap up what I started - the primary crime scene, then check on Greg at the hospital." He added responsibly.

And that was the reason why Grissom considered Warrick his successor. There was something about Warrick that made Grissom see beyond the old habits. While Grissom was the glue that held the team together, it was Warrick who was the anchor.

"I'll call Catherine and tell her to help." Grissom said as he fished his cell phone out of his pocket. He was eager to put the pieces together and find the person who hurt Greg.

* * *

Only a handful of lonely cars remained in the parking lot of the Whole Foods Supermarket. The most convenient time to do grocery shopping was in the evening. There were fewer crowds and more parking spaces. Catherine was placing two armfuls of grocery bags into the trunk of her SUV when her phone buzzed inside her handbag. Slightly disheveled from handling the heavy bags, she brushed back a piece of blond hair that had fallen over her eyes.

Digging in her junk-filled handbag in search of her ever buzzing cell phone, she made a mental note to do some serious organizing when she got home. The caller ID on her phone indicated that the call was from Grissom. She answered it as she snapped the trunk shut and walked towards the driver side with keys dangling from her keychain.

Catherine's day off provided the opportunity to relax and get some personal things done. It wasn't everyday that she got to sleep in, work out at the gym, have a well-balanced meal, soak in a two hour bath, pick up Lindsay from school, drop off Lindsay at her slumber party, do the week's grocery shopping, and go for a Starbuck's iced mocha frappuccino. She was having a pretty decent day up until the phone call from Grissom.

"Catherine, Greg's been shot." Grissom's tense voice said the second Catherine picked up.

"Oh my God!" Catherine gasped. "W-what happened? Is he alright? How is he?" She stammered. Her eyes began to water as she absorbed the grueling details.

She fumbled nervously with her keys as she tried to open the car door while holding the phone to her ear. Ever since Greg's injury during the lab explosion, Catherine kept a close eye on him. Because of her own negligence, she was held liable for what happened. She felt even more guilt when Greg easily forgave her and called it nothing but an accident. After that, she stayed with him at the hospital every day throughout her suspension.

The news of Greg being gunned down brought great distress to Catherine. As assistant shift supervisor, she had an obligation. Like Grissom, she was responsible for the well-being of her team.

"Where do you need me to be?" Catherine said into the phone.

A pause as she listened to Grissom's instructions.

"Ok, I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Catherine said as she started the ignition.

(Dear Lord, let the kid be alright) She prayed.

* * *

The unusual stillness of the waiting room at North Vista Hospital screamed with each wrecking minute. Over two hours ago when they arrived at the hospital, they told Nick he wasn't allowed to accompany Greg into the ER. He was limited to only the waiting room. They reassured him that he would be the first to know any news – good or bad. But somehow that wasn't good enough for him.

Nick was antsy. He sat down, got up, sat down, walked around the room, sat back down, got up again and resorted to pacing. He couldn't just sit there patiently – not after what happened in the ambulance. The knot in his throat refused to untwine. Nick never thought he could be so affected. He couldn't imagine life without Greg. Greg was part of the family. Not wanting anyone to see him cry, he turned to face a poster that was taped to the wall. He stared at the words but nothing sunk in. A stray tear fell from his eye, which he wiped away immediately.

At the beginning of the shift, Nick would always tease Greg about something in the locker room before heading out - whether it was about the kid's hair or his lack of dates, or the funny way he dressed. Nick never let a day go by without having some fun with Greg first. His antics were not intended to hurt Greg. It was because Greg was the youngest and that made him an easy target. Greg never complained about any mistreatment. And no one would've guessed that all the joking around was actually Nick's good luck routine.

Even field investigators had their share of danger on the job. After all the unthinkable tragedies that fell upon the team, they each had their own superstitions. Everyone's day began and ended in the locker room and this was a good place to witness their quirks and rituals. Warrick kissed the small gold cross that hung on a chain around his neck. Catherine touched her photo of Lindsay, which she taped to the locker door. And when Sara was still with the team, she used to keep a little plastic bobble head figure of a white terrier on the top shelf of her locker. She would give the dog a little tap on the head for good luck. And as for Nick, it was teasing Greg. He considered Greg to be his lucky charm.

As a rookie, Greg expected lots of hazing. After all, he had to earn his place from the other team members. The others find it most interesting that he never complained about the abuse - not even when he was forced to do all the tasks no one wanted to do. He swam neck deep in filthy dumpsters, sifted through animal dung with his hands, climbed down manholes, climbed up treetops, fished through raw sewage, crawled through dusty air vents, and became an instant guinea pig whenever the others needed to conduct experiments or reenactments.

Virtually all CSI level 1 went through the same initiations. It came with the territory. Because of this, Greg never let the teasing and joking bother him. Somehow, he was used to it. He had experience in that department. It wasn't easy being a child prodigy and going to a school for the gifted. He got teased plenty in those days. The only difference between then and now was that these were his friends. Their teasing was affectionate.

Nick felt guilty and wished he hadn't been so harsh on Greg. He wanted to take back all the times he treated Greg like the office gofer and servant to the higher-ups. Greg was a real trooper for not objecting to do anything. Even as a lab technician, everyone had such high turnover expectations of him. He had a skill for processing things quickly and doing his job with utmost accuracy. Nick and the others knew Greg's capabilities and often took it for granted.

He got used to the soft murmur of conversation between nurses when they passed by. The secretaries behind the front desk pecked away at their keyboards and answered ringing phones accordingly. Down the next corridor, a lonely janitor's squeaky mop squished back and forth as he washed the floors. A few hospital personnel came out of the elevators, which were adjacent to the waiting area. An occasional overhead page for doctors caught his ears. He may appear to be engulfed in reading the poster on the wall but his mind was clearly somewhere else.

"Nick." A voice called from behind.

Nick spun around and realized the voice belonged to Grissom. Warrick and Catherine were right behind him. They approached him with solemn faces in hopes of good news.

"We came as fast as we could." Warrick said. "The crime scenes weren't just going to process themselves." He added whimsically to lighten the tension.

"I'm sorry." Nick replied. "I didn't mean to ditch you guys like that."

"No, Greg needed someone to be with him." Grissom said.

There was an awkward pause.

"Have you heard anything?" Warrick asked.

There was another awkward pause.

"We're not too late, are we?" Catherine swallowed. Seeing Nick's glassy eyes gave her the impression that something was wrong.

"No, he's still in surgery." Nick responded.

"Oh. You scared me for a sec there." Catherine said with a sigh of semi-relief.

"No one's come out of there yet." Nick said. The wait felt like an eternity.

"He's a tough kid. He'll pull through." Catherine said optimistically.

A moment of silence proceeded.

"It's going to be a long night. I'm going to get some coffee, anyone want a cup?" Warrick said breaking the silence.

"I'll go with you." Catherine volunteered.

They headed towards the coffee machine down the hall.

"Are you ok?" Grissom finally said as he took a seat next to Nick.

"Yea, fine." Nick answered quickly. He thought about it for a moment then revised his answer. "Actually, I'm not." He confided.

"I don't think any of us are fine either." Grissom replied.

"This wasn't supposed to happen to Greg." Nick ran a hand through his short brown hair. "I keep thinking if there was something I could've done. Had I been there, maybe things would've turned out differently." He rubbed his stubble-free angular jaw.

It didn't surprise Grissom to see Nick so disturbed by this whole incident. Nick often threw objectivity out the window and allowed himself to get too close to the victims. He empathized just a little too much. Though reminded numerous times by his colleagues to distance himself from the victims, he couldn't help but be human sometimes.

Grissom was just as torn as Nick. This should not have happened – not under his supervision. Greg was very capable of working on his own. He did not need a babysitter. But Grissom was in charge. He felt he should have gone with Greg into the alley.

"Come on Nick, there was nothing you could've done." Grissom said calmly. "I take full responsibility for my team's actions."

"What if Greg doesn't make it? What if he dies?" Nick said.

"He won't. He can't." Grissom said. He seemed calm, even under the most trying circumstances. Gil Grissom was not known to freak out about anything. He was a mellow individual who always had his feet firmly planted. He didn't allow things to get to him. The lack of expression was often misunderstood for callousness.

"He went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance. It took two tries on the defibrillator to bring him back, Griss." Nick said as he shook his head in dismay.

"I'm sorry you had to see that." Grissom stared at the tips of his black leather Rockports.

"Maybe it'd be different if it was someone I didn't know. But it's Greg. We've had so much history together." Nick said. "Everything is so unreal. I just have this really bad feeling."

"Hope is the last thing that dies in man; and though it is exceedingly deceitful, yet it is of this good use to us, that while we are traveling through life it conducts us in an easier and more pleasant way to our journey's end." Grissom recited most thoughtfully.

"Let me guess, Keats?" Nick attempted.

"No, eighteenth century French writer Francois De La Rochefoucauld." Grissom corrected.

"That would've been my second guess." Nick said sheepishly and offered a wry smile.

"I'm sure." Grissom smirked amiably.

"Basically you're trying to say keep a chin up." Nick said.

Grissom nodded.

* * *

Four cups of coffee and six Ring Dings later, the team was starting to get anxious. They were not able to get any information out of the nurses. The doctor and specialists they called in were nowhere to be found. There was nothing anyone could do aside from watching the clock on the wall.

Grissom had gotten several calls within this time period. Brass called several times to inquire about Greg as well as give an update on the manhunt, which was difficult being that the only one who saw anything was probably Greg. The phone call from Ecklie was not unpleasant.

At current time, Gil Grissom and Conrad Ecklie had a truce. Ecklie no longer felt threatened by Grissom once he realized his position as Assistant Director of the crime lab was secured. He made Grissom out to be a liability when in fact, he was the competition. Ecklie was all about bureaucracy and office politics – and Grissom was not. But the hostile feelings generated towards each other have taken a backseat whenever one of the members of the team was in deep trouble. Ecklie wasn't all bad. As much as he belittled Grissom's team, it was he who pulled all possible resources to help Nick and Sara in their times of need.

David Hodges was one of the first to call Grissom when he so conveniently happened to overhear Ecklie on the phone. Brown-nosing was his specialty around the lab. Perhaps sucking up to the superiors and being a pain in everyone's ass, was all anyone believed he was capable of. Of course, Hodges' main concern was not for Sander's health - which wouldn't surprise anyone one bit. For his own selfish reasons, he needed to get on Grissom's good side. Hodges knew about Grissom's tight bond with his team. He figured if he knew how to play his cards right, he could have Grissom eating out of his hand.

Grissom could tell Hodges kept the news all to himself. That was typical of him. A call from the rest of the lab techs was received a half hour later. As usual, Wendy, Mandy, Archie and Henry all fumed that Hodges had the nerve to wait so long to tell them about their friend and former lab mate. They huddled anxiously around the conference room phone and put Grissom on speaker. With heartfelt concern, they wanted to know what happened. And because Grissom knew their nature was genuine, he told them more than he told Hodges. The impact of the news hit everyone pretty hard.

As for Catherine, Warrick, and Nick, the time spent in waiting at the hospital was critical. None of them could go back to work without knowing Greg was stabilized at the very least. The conversations were kept minimal as they shared their grief.

Grissom was trying to steady his nerves by taking up a copy of the National Geographic from the magazine rack. Reading was his remedy for stress. Some people smoked when they got nervous, Grissom read. The article on the lowland gorillas of the Congo never really stuck. He stared at the picture of a gorilla on the adjacent page for the longest time.

Catherine fidgeted with her blackberry and occasionally looked up to see what everyone else was doing. She allowed Warrick to get a refills on her coffee.

Warrick was addicted to coffee. He made frequent trips to the coffee machine down the hall, though it was done more out of distraction than a need to quench a thirst. Warrick couldn't stand the wickedness of silence.

Nick sat with his head buried in his hands. He had no desire for food, coffee, or magazines. He couldn't bring himself to think about anything except the seriousness of Greg's condition. It was hard to erase the desperate look on Greg's face just seconds before he passed out.

About four hours into the wait, a man dressed from head to toe in sea foam-colored surgical garb trotted into the waiting area. Perspiration shadows could be seen around the chest and armpits of his scrubs. One end of the surgical mask was still looped around his ear. Looking quite tousled and exhausted, he brushed the sweat off his brow with the cuff of a sleeve.

Grissom, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick got up from their seats immediately when they saw the doctor. It was like as if royalty had walked into the room. Adrenaline rushed in their veins.

The wait was finally over.

End of Chapter 1


	2. Justice for Greg

Author's Note: I had no idea the CSI fan fic community was so big! I also never imagined so many people would read my fic – and actually like it! Wow! I'm so excited and it gives me an extra incentive to continue. I truly appreciate all your compliments and I'm very glad you're enjoying it. Thank you!!

Chapter 2: Justice for Greg

"Someone should inform his family." The doctor said reluctantly once the initial shock dissolved. He loosened the collar of his grimy scrubs and gave a heavy, tired sigh.

Being the bearer of bad news was the most difficult task in this profession. It was the one part of the job that no one wanted to take upon and avoided like the plague. Sometimes, even being the messenger had consequences. Very few people could tolerate getting a phone call in the middle of the night telling them something horrible had happened to their loved one. Perhaps it was hearing the jarring sound of someone else's fragile heart breaking inside them or feeling the horrendous amount of sorrow take over their souls. And all anyone could offer in return was an apology.

"I will do it." Grissom volunteered. He didn't want to do it, but somehow he felt, of all people, it should be him. He won't hide behind his subordinates and allow them do his dirty work for him. It was his duty.

"Can we see him?" Nick interjected. His voice faltered as he tried to bite back tears. "I want to see him." He demanded.

The doctor kneaded his greasy forehead with his forefinger and thumb like he was nurturing a migraine.

"Dr. Patel, Greg Sanders is our friend. We would all like to see him - even if only for a minute. Please, that's all we ask." Grissom spoke slowly and with respect.

"Look, I normally wouldn't allow it," The doctor began strictly.

His charcoal black eyes stared at the grievous faces before him and suddenly softened. He, too, had a long night. For argument's sake, he decided to let protocol slide just this once.

"But seeing how things are, I will make an exception this time. Come with me." He said as he walked briskly down the hall. He didn't wait to see if anyone was following him.

Grissom and the others hurried to match the doctor's pace.

"If the directors find out about this, I'm going get my ass chewed off." The doctor said bluntly. "You get one minute, alright?" He pressed the button for the elevator.

The air in the elevator felt cold and unforgiving. A swarm of gloom fogged the minds of everyone. As the lift slowly approached the proper floor, the tensions became stronger. Within a matter of seconds, they were going to see what became of Greg.

With fists rammed in his pant pockets, Warrick patiently watched the floor number display above the door. Catherine nervously adjusted and readjusted her handbag over her shoulder. Nick coached himself to hold it together as best he could and made promises not to cry regardless of what he was about to see. Grissom remained reticent and appeared unaffected. Though quite on the contrary, he was drowning in thought.

Grissom wondered what Doc Robbins' reaction would be if he had to conduct an autopsy on one of their own. How would he feel looking down at Greg's pale, lifeless body on the metal slab? How would he deal with starting a Y-incision on the poor kid? Would the stiffness of Greg's body after rigor mortis bother him? Setting all emotions aside, would Doc be able to do it?

Grissom imagined Doc Robbins' response as they stand over Greg in the morgue. The scruffy silver bearded coroner would pull down his black rimmed glasses and say, "I remember the first time he came down to watch an autopsy. He was still so young. I questioned his ability to withstand the grotesque experience. But I underestimated him completely. He didn't even flinch. In fact, he was very attentive and kept asking questions."

Doc Robbins' gaze would then fall on to Greg's sunken cheeks and purple lips. He would say, "I never thought I would be put in this position, Gil. It's all a bit ironic. He is, I mean - was an extraordinary young man with a bright future. It's such a shame."

The sound of the elevator bell brought Grissom out of his trance. The doors slid open and they filed out of the elevator. They followed Dr. Patel down a few corridors.

It was the longest walk of Grissom's life. The endless corridors transformed into the hallway that lead to Dr. Al Robbins' office at the morgue. A few dead bodies covered respectfully with white sheets on metal tables were lined up for autopsy along the hall. The identification tags tied to their toes stuck out and taunted Grissom. He felt the light twinge of nitrogen caress his skin.

Rows of square metal doors with pewter hinges, each a 6 feet by 4 feet refrigerator used to preserve the dead, mocked him. A voice behind those doors echoed in his head. "Open me. No – open me. Open me, Grissom. Open me!" The whispered voice came from behind different doors and alternated as he walked passed them. "Open me. Haha, no, open me! Guess where I am? I'm in here. Open!" The mischievous voice continued to egg him on. Grissom recognized the eerie voice. It belonged to Greg.

Grissom shook his head and the hallway transformed back to the fifth floor intensive care unit. The smells of the hospital entered his nose and brought him back to reality.

A couple of bypassing nurses gave them short curious glances. It was deathly quiet, except for the occasional squeak caused by the friction between the polished tiles of the floor and Catherine's tennis sneakers.

"He's in here." Dr. Patel said softly as he approached a room.

They came to a stop in front of a room with a big Plexiglass window next to the entrance. Everyone looked through the window. The sight before them was truly heart breaking.

"You know, he's lucky to be alive." Dr. Patel said. "His chances were 40/60. The bullet missed his heart by two inches."

"Is he going to be alright?" Nick sounded worried.

"He's definitely not out of the woods yet. The next twenty-four hours is critical." Dr. Patel answered.

"Can we go inside?" Catherine asked impatiently.

Dr. Patel nodded. He turned the knob and held the door for the others to enter.

Grissom, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick stood circling the foot of Greg's bed. They observed the gaunt figure lying in the bed. If it wasn't for all the machinery and life-support systems, it would've been considered a pretty spacious room. The multitude of equipment seemed overwhelming and frightening. All sorts of color-coded wires were attached to Greg's chest and torso. They ran from under his polka-dotted hospital gown and hooked up to the adjacent monitors.

There seemed to be a machine to monitor and read just about everything from his heart rhythm to his blood pressure. There were blood warmer machines, IV bags, feeding pumps, and other complicated-looking contraptions. A plastic breathing tube was inserted into Greg's mouth and held in place with tape. The other end of the tube was connected to a ventilator to help him breathe.

A symphony of beeping and buzzing noises originating from the machines filled the room. The air being pumped into his lungs produced a short wheezing sound. They watched the rise and fall of Greg's chest as artificial respiration forced oxygen through his lungs.

Greg's complexion was ghastly. He looked like he'd lost twenty pounds within the course of just one day. Dark circles under the eyes made his pasty eyelids look like he'd been deprived of sleep for days. His face was white. Even the scatter of freckles across his nose was pale and barely noticeable.

Nick stared at the thick set of bandages about seven inches down from Greg's neck. The gauze pad made his hospital gown puff up slightly. Nick's eyes couldn't tear away from that spot on Greg's chest. It was like as if there was some sort of abnormal attraction that drew him to the wound. The anger was building inside him.

For a lack of a better place to store his trembling hands, Warrick kept his fists jammed in his pockets the whole time. Greg's stillness gave him the creeps. He tried multiple times to stop comparing Greg to a corpse.

Grissom wanted to go over to Greg and take his hand but he just couldn't do it. He was not afraid of Greg. More so, he was afraid he couldn't hold in his tears. No one had ever seen Gil Grissom cry. Many believed he did not possess lacrimal glands and therefore was incapable of crying.

The scene was very disturbing for Catherine but she seemed to be the most unruffled one of all. Her facial expression was firm and poised from the moment they entered Greg's room to the moment they left. She made sure not to put forth any signs of weakness in front of Greg. She did a pretty good job of that until she reached the waiting area. Her tears were unstoppable. As strong as Catherine was, she was still a woman. And women were more susceptible to breakdowns and emotional struggles than men. She received tissues and hugs from the guys.

"It looks pretty bad but we'll know more tomorrow. He's in good hands. I assure you that you'll be the first one to know if there are any changes in his condition." Dr. Patel offered. The aging lines on his leathery forehead furrowed when he spoke.

"Thank you Dr. Patel. We appreciate it." Grissom said. "Do you have the bullet fragment that you pulled out of Greg? We're going to need it. It's evidence now."

"Yes, I will bring it to you. Wait here." Dr. Patel said before leaving the room.

"I don't care if I have to work around the clock. I won't rest until we catch the bastard who did this to Greg." Nick resolved. It was the first thing he said since coming out of Greg's room. His eyes were hardened and filled with vast determination.

"Me too. We need to do it for Greg." Warrick said without hesitation.

"Whatever it takes." Catherine added as she blew her nose.

"Ok now, I just want to remind everyone that we will treat this like any other case. We must not jump ahead of ourselves or do something we will regret later. Understand?" Grissom said while meeting the eyes of his subordinates. "Nick?" He pinpointed.

Grissom worried about Nick's conduct the most. Nick was a good guy but he often took things to a personal level. Sometimes, he ignored the consequences only to suffer them later. When things hit too close to home, he flew into a rage that couldn't be tamed by words. Grissom saw that side of Nick after Greg got beaten and when Sara went missing. It was Nick's integrity and determination that Grissom ultimately valued. Nick was the one of those people who wouldn't quit until he got answers.

Perhaps Nick hungered for justice. He needed closure for himself and for the victim. It traumatized him deeply when any of his friends suffered. He took great offense in their demise and never fell short of offering help. Maybe it was in his DNA to be selfless and to care so much for others. After all, his father happened to be a highly respected judge in the circuit.

Grissom admired Nick for his vivacity and perseverance for conviction. He couldn't act surprised and say he'd never seen Nick like this, when in fact he knew Nick always favored Greg – even through the lab days. Nick's attachment to Greg somehow escalated after the gang beating. The brotherly bond between the two seemed stronger since. Grissom remembered Warrick telling him how angry Nick became when they found a small tuff of Greg's hair, pulled during the violent beating, which was still attached to a thin bloody layer of scalp. A pesky bystander flared Nick's temper and Nick ended up putting a fist into the guy's mouth. If it wasn't for Warrick's quick thinking, Nick would've really landed himself into a ton of trouble.

"Yea, I get it. Don't worry about me." Nick said with fire still burning in his eyes. He started walking out the front doors of the hospital. Every muscle in his body ached for revenge.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of." Grissom muttered when Nick was out of earshot. "Warrick, look after him – make sure he stays clear of trouble."

Warrick nodded. "See you back at the lab." He said as he followed Nick out the door.

"Are you ok with making the call?" Catherine asked Grissom after Warrick left.

"I'm fine with it." Grissom said. "Done it before, right?"

"Yea but this time, it's different. It's Greg and he's critical." Catherine said. "If you want me to do it – "

"No, no." Grissom sighed. "I should be the one to do it. His mother is not going to take this well."

"It's going to crush her." Catherine said truthfully. "How do you tell someone their son is currently in intensive care relying on a respirator to stay alive from a gunshot wound that barely missed his heart?" She asked rhetorically.

Grissom remained quiet. He appeared to be deep in thought again. Catherine guessed he was probably trying to think of some gentle way to break the news to Greg's mother.

"I shouldn't have taken the day off." Catherine shook her head in dismay. "You wanna fill me in on the case you were working on before all this happened?"

* * *

Eight Hours Earlier:

"Lividity approximates victim's time of death to be at least four hours." Assistant coroner David Phillips said as he examined the body of the deceased with gloved hands.

"Cause of death - gunshot to the back of the head." David continued. "Judging from the looks of the entrance and exit wounds – it suggests gun was fired at a close range. Death was instant." He added as he sat on his heels. "Basically, someone blew this guy's brains out. We'll know more details when we bring him in." David pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he looked up at Grissom.

"Who found the body?" Nick asked Detective Jim Brass, who was already on the scene when they arrived.

"Homer Simpson over there." Brass said darting his eyes over to a homeless man a few yards away.

The grungy homeless man was clad in layers of worn and tattered clothing that he probably accumulated through numerous findings. His rounded plump figure suggested life had been good to him at one point. He had a full grey-colored beard that made up for the baldness on the top of his head. The man was giving a statement to a police officer.

Making gestures with his hands and arms as he spoke, the homeless man appeared very descriptive and willing to give as much detailed information as possible. The police officer was rapidly scribbling into his notepad trying to keep up and get it all down in writing.

"He was looking for dinner in the dumpster over there." Brass pointed. "And as he was leaving, he tripped on our stiff over here." He added insensitively.

Nick's attention returned to David and Grissom. He gave a soft laugh as he watched David struggle to turn over the dead body to face up. This was due to David's lack of physical strength. David, or Super Dave to his friends, was not known to be the athletic type. He was rather short and possessed a stout physique, which he often blamed on his slow metabolism rate and his Aunt Sophie. His nickname was obviously not created for his physical abilities. It was half in jest and half because he had a knack for discovering breakthroughs.

The body of the deceased was dressed in a rice-colored button front shirt with a dark brown blazer, matching trousers, and brown leather wingtip shoes. He appeared to be a Caucasian male in his thirties with what used to be sandy blond hair. Blood mixed with brain matter, burnt flesh and bone fragments smeared his face, nearly obscuring his drooped eyelids and blurry-eyed fixed stare. If not for the blood, he would've otherwise been a very attractive man.

On his hands and knees, Grissom ever so cautiously checked the pockets of the dead man for a wallet in search for identification. With gloved hands, he reached into each pocket of John Doe's jacket.

"What's Mr. GQ doing in this side of the 'hood?" Brass asked referring to the nicely dressed victim.

"Abandoned buildings, secluded alleys, definitely not a high trafficked area." Nick said as he surveyed the surroundings. "It's a perfect place to commit murder. No one'll hear or see anything. Looks like he was lured here to be murdered."

"Mr. GQ is really Johnston Cubs." Grissom said while holding up an expensive-looking black leather wallet. "His cash and credit cards are all here, so I don't think it was a robbery." He flipped through the billfold.

"A pair of tire treads." Warrick called from the street. He then positioned his camera and took a few shots at various angles.

Nick walked towards Warrick, squatted down, and observed the indentations of the treads. "A sports coupe? We'll run it in the tread database."

"Judging from the acceleration against the pavement, the car went that way." Warrick pointed down the street.

Detective Brass' cell phone rang and he excused himself to answer it.

Something caught Nick's eye. Scattered near the curb, they appeared to be small black granules that had the crumbling texture of dark soil. It looked suspiciously out of place in a non-grassed area. Nick walked over, set his processing kit down and crouched over the unidentified particles. He opened his kit and took out some envelopes and collected the evidence.

"Look Grissom, I gotta go. I just got a call – I'm needed at the Tropicana." Detective Brass said nonchalantly while Grissom was still looking through the victim's wallet. "There seems to be an excess of idiots in the city today." He added in a monotone.

Having served over twenty years in homicide, Jim Brass had seen it all. Nothing touched him anymore and he refused to let anything get to him. He did his job well and often did things by the book. His tough appearance gave people the notion that he was unfeeling and relentless, but he had been known to bend rules on occasion. Aside from an estranged daughter, Brass really didn't have much of a family. The night shift team was his family. He trusted Grissom and had a great deal of confidence in his team. He even admitted that if he ever got murdered, he'd want Grissom and his team to do the investigation.

"It's ok. We can handle it from here." Grissom said.

"Great. Have fun." Brass said as he alternated glances between Grissom and the dead guy covered in blood. "Call if you need me." He said as he walked away.

"There's some sort of debris stuck on his shoe." Greg said at first glance. He took a pair of tweezers from his processing kit and plucked a tiny translucent pellet from the crevices of the man's sole.

"Could be glass." Greg said as he brought the particle into the light. He placed his findings in an evidence envelope and scribbled a description on the cover.

"Greg, give me those tweezers." Grissom said while taking a closer look at the victim's face.

"What do you see?" Greg said while handing it over.

With David and Greg watching curiously on, Grissom tilted the victim's head back causing the victim's mouth to open slightly. Apparently, Grissom discovered something was lodged into the victim's mouth. Grissom used the tweezers to carefully pull out what appears to be a crumpled one hundred dollar bill.

David and Greg exchanged a puzzled look and waited for Grissom to say something idiosyncratic.

Grissom observed the wad and said, "Well, I guess this gives a whole new meaning to the phrase – putting your money where your mouth is."

"I was waiting for that." David said to Greg. They chuckled lightly at Grissom's predictability.

"And with that said - you can officially bag him now." Greg said to Super Dave as he looked at the victim.

David made haste and gathered the body bag in preparation for transporting the body to the morgue. Grissom continued to make observations of the body to look for clues.

Located about a foot away, Greg noticed a handful of the same shiny translucent material he found under the victim's shoes. He squatted down and took a sample of the shards with tweezers. The colors of the pellets varied. They were not all clear in color. Some of them had a greenish tint while others had a touch of brown. Greg bagged it. He would have to send it to trace to analyze it further.

Just as he was about to get up, he saw a second scatter of the same glassy material another yard away. He walked over and studied it. He then looked around anxiously for a trail. Perhaps the victim tracked it from somewhere else before his date with death. And sure enough, Greg found more of the glass, which seemed to lead into the neighboring alley.

He turned back to look at Grissom. But Grissom was engrossed in checking for any minuscule evidence that he may have missed on the body. He looked at Warrick. But Warrick was occupied with taking photos of shell casings that he found as well as searching for the bullet that exited the victim's body. He looked to Nick. But Nick was busy swabbing and photographing the body splatter.

Somehow, Greg felt he was onto something but he wasn't a hundred percent sure. He figured it could be something or nothing at all. It wouldn't hurt to take a look and make sure before bringing it to Grissom's attention. He closed his processing kit and picked it up by the handle. He proceeded to follow the trail of glass into the alley.

About midway into the alley, he found the source of the mysterious glass. He placed his processing kit down and opened it. He took out his cell phone and rang for Grissom.

"Whatcha got Greg?" Grissom said when he picked up.

"I think I know where the vic was before he got shot." Greg said excitedly as he stood up and surveyed the area. He didn't see anyone, but then again, he didn't expect to see anyone – especially if someone was hiding behind one of the dumpsters.

"I have a match for the material found on his shoe. It's really crushed glass. You know, it's from those recycle machines that compress glass bottles. There are bags of them here." Greg continued as he stared at the mound of multi-colored glass fragments on the floor and in the dumpsters.

"Stay put. I'll come over." Grissom instructed.

"But my question is – what was that guy doing here in the first place?" Greg wondered. He thought he saw something move in the corner of his eye. But he dismissed it. Shadows played tricks on his mind.

He approached a dumpster – not realizing his life would be in danger.

"I suppose it must've been something very important to come to this part of town. And to be dressed like that, he would've had to…-" Greg was cut short when a hooded man swung out from behind the dumpster.

Greg was suddenly faced with the barrel of a gun. The gun went off and the rest was history.

* * *

Back to the Present:

"He tried to tell me something before he passed out." Grissom said to Catherine, who had been listening very attentively to the story.

"Do you think Greg saw the shooter?" Catherine asked.

"He said it was a man." Grissom replied. "But that's about all I could understand. He was in too much pain."

"And we won't know anything more until he wakes up." Catherine said in despair. "You suppose the two cases are related?"

"We'll have to compare the ballistics report on the bullet from the vic and the one taken out of Greg to see if it came from the same gun." Grissom said.

Grissom grew quiet and stared at the exit of the hospital doors. He looked like he carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He tried to stay focused but he couldn't keep his mind from wandering. Greg's casualty affected Grissom immensely.

Greg was a smart kid and a remarkable student with great potential. Some people who don't know Greg may think of him as just the young pup at Grissom's heel. But that didn't bother Greg. Full of respect and admiration for Grissom, Greg was ever grateful for given the opportunity to flourish in his career as a CSI and not just be dubbed as a lab rat.

Although Greg had a bad habit of suffocating Grissom with questions, Grissom never once turned him away. But regardless of his schedule, Grissom always made time for him. This was the reason for Greg's loyalty. Like with many others, he trusted Grissom with his life and valued his advice. Greg's constant thirst for knowledge gave Grissom fulfillment.

Grissom asked himself for the millionth time how he could let this happen. It was unimaginable to think how such a young life could be taken away in an instant.

If Greg dies, the blood would be on his hands.

"Grissom, we're gonna get this guy." Catherine reassured gently. Her blue eyes held back tears. She shared in Grissom's torment and reeled in enormous grief for Greg.

Dr. Patel returned with the bullet fragment in a transparent plastic pouch. He handed it to Grissom, who placed it into his pocket. Grissom expressed the urgency of being the first to know if Greg's condition changes – especially so if he should wake. Dr. Patel reassured him that he would. Grissom and Catherine shook hands with the doctor and thanked him for his services.

Grissom and Catherine felt a cool desert breeze when they stepped out of the hospital doors.

The early sign of dawn was breaking outside. Thin pale orange misty rays stretched its arms out on the horizon giving contrast to the blue sky. Somewhere in the diminishing darkness, a small bird chirped impatiently for sunrise. An occasional car or truck whizzed by on the highway. Running motors were drowned out by the sporadic sounds of tires thudding innocently as they bounced out of old potholes.

They got into Catherine's car and headed back to the Las Vegas Crime Lab, where a case was waiting for them to unravel.

Everyone had a full plate on their hands among other things. Catherine was to run the ballistics. Nick was to process the trace he found on the curb. Warrick was to analyze the set of tread marks found at the crime scene.

But Grissom's job was the hardest of them all. There was a very important phone call he had to make.

End of Chapter 2


	3. Prime Suspects

Chapter 3: Prime Suspects

"So how did she take the news?" Catherine inquired mildly. She stood leaning against the doorway to Grissom's office with arms folded across her chest.

"She was surprisingly strong." Grissom answered from his seat behind a long paper-covered mahogany desk. He put down the file he was reading and removed his glasses. "She's taking a flight out of JFK later today."

"I hope she's ok." Catherine said. "She was quite upset the last time Greg landed in the hospital. Remember, she wanted to sue us?"

"Yes." Grissom gave a laugh. "But she soon realized how irrational that was. I don't blame her. She had every right to be angry. She was a mother in grief."

"Glad Greg talked her out of it. I can't believe Greg never told her about his promotion to CSI."

"Well, the truth eventually did come out and after he made himself clear, she had no choice but to accept it." Grissom said. "If you ask me, I think once the dust settled and she really thought long and hard about it, she realized there was nothing she could do but be supportive of her son's choices. She could no longer protect him from everything like she used to."

"Talk about being overprotective." Catherine glanced over at Grissom's growing collection of petrified insects and butterflies, which he organized neatly inside an array of glass-topped display cases.

"Deep down inside, I think she was very proud of what he did. He saved a man's life."

"We're all very proud of Greg." Catherine admitted. She faltered for a brief moment then began again. "I ran the ballistics report on the bullet that killed our vic. It's a match to the bullet we recovered from Greg. Striations of the shell casings found at the crime scene match as well. It's the same gun."

"We might be looking at the same shooter." Grissom said. "How's Warrick coming along with the tire treads?"

"I was just on my way over." Catherine said.

The bustle of the day shift people swarmed the offices as the morning advanced. Grissom had forgotten how crowded the halls were during the day. The amount of people working at what most would call "regular" hours exceeded those who pulled the graveyard shift. But he was glad to work the night shift because it was less claustrophobic.

Grissom walked through the same halls dozens of times but never had he ever felt the uncomfortable weight of everyone's stare. They knew. Everyone knew. News traveled fast and spread like wildfire. He didn't feel a need for explanation. But then again, nobody dared ask for one. None of these people knew Greg the way he did. Actually, these people didn't even remotely know Greg at all. They only heard abridged versions of what happened through the pipeline. He ignored the stares and continued his way to the computer lab.

The night shift clocked out hours ago. The only people left from that shift were Grissom, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick. They just couldn't go home without breaking the case and having some sort of consolation for Greg being shot. Greg's current status angered all of them and the only retribution was to find the person responsible.

Grissom and Catherine walked into the dimly lit computer lab to find Warrick working away at a keyboard in front of a large flat screen monitor. He scanned the tire treads into the system and determined the width and circumference using the tire's alphanumeric code. He then searched the database library of tread patterns to determine the manufacturer.

"Any luck?" Grissom asked.

"They're Bridgestones. The model name - Potenza RE050AB RFT." Warrick said and whistled. "Expensive babies. They go for four hundred dollars a pop." He added in an amazed voice.

Grissom and Catherine looked at the tire comparison on the screen that Warrick pulled up.

"This narrows down our search because these particular tires happened to be made exclusively for BMW sports coupes. It's a 650Ci to be exact." Warrick said. He rubbed his eyes. "I'll cross-reference it with registrations in the area and see what comes up."

"Expensive car – could it be a car theft gone wrong?" Catherine questioned.

"But what was our vic doing in the alley?" Grissom said. "Evidence suggests he was there before he came out into the street and killed."

"I don't believe he got there on foot – dressed like a million bucks." Warrick said shaking his head.

"Maybe we should be also looking for another car." Catherine said. "The vic's car."

"Way ahead of you." Warrick laughed. "I did a DMV and background check on Johnston Cubs." He pulled up another screen. A flicker of the screen followed by a picture and personal info popped up onto the display. "We're lookin' for a Lexus GX. Nevada license plate 487HQ9. I already had Brass put out a BOLO."

"Any priors?" Grissom asked.

Warrick hit another button on the keyboard and waited for the information to appear. "Your guy's clean. No known records." He said and rubbed his eyes again.

"You've been at this a while. You should take a break." Grissom said as Warrick succumbed to exhaustion.

"Really, I'm ok." Warrick denied. "After several hours of staring at this screen, my eyes were starting to cross." He drudged on. "I'll let you know if I get any hits on the BMW sports coupe."

Grissom darted his eyes over at Catherine and a slight smile crept across his lips. He was blessed to have such a compatible and dedicated team. They had such drive and determination. Grissom was very proud indeed. They toiled long hours when Nick was taken, they plowed ahead when Sara went missing, and now, they remained devoted to finding Greg's shooter. Grissom couldn't ask for anything more. He left the room rather satisfied.

Nick was in the chem lab waiting for the printer to spit out the sheet of paper indicating the actual contents of the black granules that he found at the crime scene. A short buzz sounded off followed by the soft crunch of paper dispensing from the printer. Still with latex gloves on his hands, he retrieved the paper. He was reading the data when Grissom walked in.

"It's potting soil." Nick said as he looked up from the paper. He gave Grissom a puzzled look. "What's potting soil doing at our crime scene?"

"Transfer." Grissom shrugged.

"I also processed the bill you found in the vic's mouth." Nick said changing the subject. With his starched white lab coat flapping by his side, he hurried over to the fingerprint super glue fuming cabinet.

Grissom peered into the glass and saw a slightly rumpled one hundred dollar bill hooked into the middle of the chamber.

"I was only able to get half a print off the bill." Nick continued. His fingers pecked feverishly at the computer keyboard next to the fuming cabinet. "I was cross-referencing it with AFIS."

Grissom looked at the flickering monitor as it searched the database for matching prints in the system.

"Nothing yet. It's been going for the last ten minutes. Potting soil and no hits on AFIS. The only thing left to run on is a small leaf found in the alley where Greg was shot. I feel like this is a dead end." Nick said feeling very discouraged. He, too, was giving way to fatigue.

"You're not thinking with a clear head. It's just the exhaustion speaking." Grissom said with the patience of Confucius.

Nick removed his latex gloves and threw them irritably into the waste basket.

"I know you're anxious to get this guy." Grissom said. "And we will. But right now, we just gotta take one step at a time. All the pieces of the puzzle will fall into place."

"I don't want to take a break." Nick blurted.

"I didn't say you should." Grissom retorted almost comically.

Nick took a deep breath and regained his cool. "It's hard to focus when I know Greg's lying in the hospital unconscious and hooked up to a respirator." He said. "I can't get that sick image out of my head."

"Catherine's getting the photos together. Why don't we go look at them?" Grissom said after a moment of silence. "Staring at the computer screen there won't do you any good." He beckoned with a nod of his head and started out the door.

Defeated, Nick followed Grissom out the door. They went down the hall to the photo lab, where Catherine was spreading out the last of the 8X12's on the rectangular light table. Catherine arranged all the photos into groups. She looked up when the guys walked in.

The pictures of the crime scene in the alley caught Nick's attention instantly. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the yellow marker placed in front of the dried blood pool. There was a piece of paper taped to the marker with the word "Sanders" scribbled in what appeared to be Warrick's handwriting. It indicated where Greg lay bleeding before the ambulance came.

Nick just couldn't pay attention to the conversation between Grissom and Catherine. Their voices soon became background noise. His eyes burned with fury as he stared at the picture. He remembered the slippery warm feel of Greg's blood on his hands when he applied pressure to the wound. The desperate feeling of his friend's life slipping through his fingers made him angry.

"Nick?" Grissom said.

"What?" Nick looked up to find Grissom and Catherine staring at him.

"You ok?" Catherine asked.

"Fine." Nick replied.

Grissom realized what stole Nick's concentration. The grotesque pictures of Greg's blood spill were right in front of him. Grissom automatically knew what was going through Nick's head.

Nick and Greg were buddies. They had always been close – like brothers. Nick, being the older one, always felt obligated to pick on Greg. Apparently, Nick felt only he was allowed unlimited access to Greg's teasing rights. He made sure no one was being too cruel to Greg. Nick was highly defensive of Greg when people got out of line. But when it came down to the wire, he really cared about him. For his good friend to be in such a situation, it was paralyzing.

"Are you sure you're ok with this?" Grissom questioned. "If it's too much, I can take you off the case."

"I'm fine. I want to be here. I need to be here." Nick rambled. He seemed to be deeply hurt by the mere suggestion of being taken off such an important case.

"Ok. Then I'm going to need you to be one hundred percent on this case." Grissom said.

"You got it." Nick promised. Though Grissom was not completely convinced, he let it slide.

Suddenly, Grissom's cell phone rang. He answered it promptly on the second ring. Catherine and Nick stared curiously at Grissom to try and guess who was on the other line. The clock on the wall showed it was about 10:30 am. Both Catherine and Nick predicted it to be news from the hospital.

Nick had already decided that if it was indeed the hospital calling, it was too soon for any positive changes and therefore it had to be something bad. He figured since Greg was in surgery for over four hours, it would be highly unlikely that he should change for the better so quickly.

Catherine, on the other hand, would like to believe the hospital was calling to say Greg's condition was improving. She couldn't tolerate anything otherwise. Greg was a survivor and she was counting on him to pull through.

Seriousness was etched into their faces as they watched Grissom listen to his phone. Surprisingly, he hung up fairly quickly. This made Catherine and Nick wonder.

"That was Warrick." Grissom revealed.

A wave of relief mixed with a bit of disappointment hit them. It was cynical to want a phone call from the hospital, yet not want any bad news. They were afraid of being afraid.

"We have a name and address of the owner of the car that fled the scene." Grissom said. "A Joanne Emerson."

Nick and Catherine exchanged surprised glances.

"Shall we find out what Joanne Emerson has to say?" Grissom said eagerly.

* * *

Perhaps it was something about the long slate paved driveway leading through about half an acre of extremely well-manicured velvety green grass. Or perhaps it was pulling up to a huge statuesque marble-columned, fancy dome-shaped entrance that seemed big enough to be Grand Central Station. The reddish brown stucco roofing reminded Grissom of a villa in Spain. Catherine was dumbfounded and smitten by the enormity and extravagance of the vicinity. Nick, however, was drawn to something else.

Parked right in front of a garage, was a sleek sliver two-door Maserati Granturismo with slightly tinted windows and shiny chrome wheels. Nick was practically drooling at the caliber of beauty the vehicle possessed. He wondered what other fancy rides were stored in that massive garage. His lusty attraction was soon broken when he caught a glimpse of a cobalt BMW sports coupe peeking from behind a garage door that was partially open. It was, no doubt, the same vehicle that left the tire treads at the crime scene.

Grissom, Catherine and Nick were greeted at the door by a distinguished looking gentleman. He was a grey haired and mustached fellow dressed in a comfortable looking black blazer with matching pants. He spoke eloquently and respectfully, addressing them as sirs and madam. They were lead to wait in the foyer and told the lady of the house would be there shortly.

Catherine couldn't help but admire the beautiful and expensive tastes in furnishings. The grand staircase forked midway and provided two sets of stairs ascending to the left and right. The echoes of their voices bounced around the high ceilings. Multi-million dollar home, luxurious cars, expensive tastes - Nick finally began to suspiciously wonder - who was Joanne Emerson anyway.

Joanne Emerson descended down the wide staircase looking quite spiffy in a beige designer skirt suit. She was a slender woman in her fifties with hair pinned neatly on top of her head. Her body language suggested confidence, which could be misconstrued for arrogance. She had an articulate tongue and pleasant hospitable tone of voice. She led the team into the parlor and offered them tea – of which they declined.

The Emerson's were generations of oil tycoons. Joanne Emerson inherited the family fortune soon after her father died five years ago from cancer. She was divorced with a grown wayward son, who lived in the apartment by the pool.

She had a reputation for being a respected philanthropist and humanitarian. Her generous contributions and involvement in the community earned her just about every humanitarian award known to man.

Joanne was most cooperative when questions were put forth. She identified the vic to be her trusty lawyer and was utterly shocked to find out he had been killed. When asked about how her BMW sports coupe ended up at a crime scene, she appeared genuinely surprised and alarmed.

Nick asked her where she was the previous day at approximately 3:00 pm. Joanne stated she was at a fundraiser for kids with disabilities at the Las Vegas Convention Hall. There were dozens of people there who could confirm her alibi. She willingly provided a list of names.

Testing for gunshot residue was useless because of the timeframe. The suspect had plenty of time to wash the GSR off his or her hands. Catherine requested a DNA sample to rule her out of any possible connection. It angered Joanne to be considered a suspect in this mess and she appeared rather upset by the murder of her lawyer, Johnston Cubs.

Grissom wanted to take a look at the car, which was in plain sight. Joanne had no choice but to comply. She led them into the garage. Nick and Catherine quickly got to work on the BMW while Grissom stayed behind and talked to Joanne.

When asked who else had access to the cars, Joanne laughed and said "everybody". By "everybody", she meant the hired help. The keys were easily accessible and could've been taken from the cabinet. Anyone could've taken the car for a spin without her knowing. When Grissom asked who the hired help was, she laughed again. He underestimated the number of people under her employment. There were dozens of maids and housekeepers, gardeners, pool boys, chauffeurs, personal assistants, cooks, nutritionists, fitness/tennis/golf instructors, dog walkers, travel agents, financial advisors, among a slew of others. She liked to think she was helping these people out by giving them jobs.

Nick found traces of potting soil and glass on the brake pedal. He collected samples and went onto the passenger side, where he found a few more traces of potting soil.

Catherine dusted the steering wheel and door handles for fingerprints.

The CSIs collected the evidence, obtained the roster of people employed by Joanne Emerson, and headed back to the crime lab. Warrick informed Grissom that Brass located the vic's car. Stolen, they found it under the overpass on Eastland, abandoned and stripped. Brass brought in the guy who stole the vehicle. And after interrogation, the car's original location was within two blocks of the crime scene.

While they broke for a late lunch, Grissom and Brass worked on getting a judge to issue a warrant to search the rest of Joanne Emerson's estate.

Grissom then multi-tasked and ate his sandwich while going over the list of Joanne Emerson's employees. Catherine hit the lockers for a refreshing shower, and then made a call to check on Lindsay. Warrick decided to use the hour wisely by napping in the lounge. Nick skipped the lunch break and continued working.

* * *

Some Hours Later:

"Griss, the soil we found at the crime scene is a match to the trace we found in the car." Nick said into his cell phone. There was a sort of excitement in his voice. "I did a comparison to determine the brand. It's Miracle-Gro. You might be looking for someone who works around the yard."

"The gardener." Grissom said. It was the first break they had all day.

"And that's not all." Nick marveled. "The partial we got from the hundred dollar bill is a match to the prints Catherine pulled off the steering wheel and door of the BMW."

"I'm going to get Brass to bring in the gardener for questioning." Grissom said. "Good work, Nick." He added before hanging up.

The interview with the Emerson gardener proved to be fruitless. His prints were not a match to those found on the bill or the car. They thoroughly checked his shoes, his hands, his clothes, and nothing indicated he was anywhere near the car or the crime scene.

The gardener's name was Emilio Escobar, a hardworking dark-skinned fellow of forty-six and a father of five. He seemed terrified on being interrogated about a murder and from the looks of things, either he was a superb actor or he really had nothing to do with it. Still dressed in his work clothes, he was questioned on his daily routine at the Emerson mansion.

It was later revealed that Emilio overheard some arguing between Joanne and her son on the veranda. He couldn't hear the nature of the heated argument but he saw they were extremely angry. Upon exiting through the doorway, Joanne accidentally knocked over a plant. The clay pot shattered and soil spilled everywhere. She then summoned for Mary, the maid, to clean it up.

Potting soil.

Grissom ran through the roster of employees and found the maid's name. Brass brought her in for questioning. Like the gardener, the interview with the maid proved to be another dead end. Although she had a small trace of potting soil on her sneakers, her prints were not a match to anything.

Mary Smith was a plain-looking young woman. There was nothing unusual or suspicious about her. She was a high school drop out, who lived in a trailer park with her aunt and uncle. She knew how to clean and mind her own business – and that was it.

She wearily described again how she cleaned up the mess on the floor. She swept the debris into a dust pan, emptied it into a trash bag, left the room to get a mop and pail of water, mopped up the veranda, and took out the trash. However, Mary did mention with annoyance that she noticed Joanne and her son had tracked the soil onto the carpet inside the room. Therefore, she had to steam the carpet to get the stains out.

This prompted another visit to the Emerson mansion. This time, Brass brought in Joanne's infamous son. His name was Cody Michaels. He was the product of Joanne's first marriage to internet mogul Stuart Michaels. They were happily divorced and living their own rich lives in separate worlds for the last twenty years. Cody was just reaching his teen years when the divorce took place. It hit him pretty hard and things spiraled downward from there.

Brass figured Cody to be a colorful character from the moment he picked him up. He could tell it was finally going to get exciting in interrogation. The tattoo-clad, bleached black spiked haired, nose-pierced, pimple-cheeked thirty three year old flaunted his chiseled biceps wearing a tank top. He was the typical spoiled bad-boy, who had problems with authority. Brass found it amusing.

Much to Grissom's luck, Cody Michaels happened to be in the system. He had a rap sheet full of misdemeanors. But his prints were no match to the prints found on the bill and the car, which explained why they had no hits on AFIS.

Fearless, Cody tried to be difficult for a while. When asked of his whereabouts during the murder, he conveniently stated that he was at home entertaining a few ladies, all of whom could vouch for him. When asked regarding the nature of his argument with his mother, he sighed in annoyance. He fought with mother all the time. It wasn't something new. She wanted him to stop wasting his life away. He wanted her to get off his back.

A startling revelation occurred when Grissom examined the bottom of Cody's sneakers. He found some trace of soil attached to the sole of the shoe, as he expected. But there was something else. He found a grain of crushed glass wedged into a crevice of the shoe – the same type that led Greg into the alley. Grissom picked it up with tweezers.

As much as Brass liked Cody for the murder, there was nothing binding that he could use to hold him further.

Finally, Brass brought Joanne Emerson in for questioning. She got a little flustered at the multitude of questions. After admitting that she left all the planning to her personal assistants, Brass asked her for the names of her personal assistants. She mentioned it was the senior staff administrator who coordinated everything.

Grissom recognized the senior staff administrator to be the same man who answered the door on their first visit to the Emerson mansion. The grey haired, mustached man was Marcus Reynolds. He was very stern and showed no sign of fear or weakness. He appeared pretentious. When asked of his alibi at the time of the murder, he told them he was amidst picking up Joanne's dry cleaning.

Marcus Reynolds was by far the longest employee in the Emerson mansion. He was one of the live-in staff, whom Joanne spoke very highly of. The other employees often reported to him. Marcus was a tall skinny man of sixty-two. He kept to himself and was a devoted servant to the Emerson's.

The interview lasted about fifteen minutes. If he was the culprit, he did a fantastic job of getting rid of the evidence. His hands, clothes, shoes - everything was clean as a whistle. They took his prints and released him.

* * *

The loud music and bold neon lights of Las Vegas Boulevard were coming alive as the hours inched into the evening. Tour reps were on the sidewalk trying to convince tourists to sign up for helicopter rides and excursions to the Grand Canyon. On the dark side of the strip, shady individuals attempted to distribute business cards advertising racy strip clubs to potential male patrons. Operatic music from the dancing fountains of The Bellagio drew the hourly audience.

As the day drew to a close, the crime lab's night shift was trickling in to work. Archie, Wendy, Mandy, and Henry were among the first people to bombard Warrick and Nick with questions regarding Greg. Neither Warrick nor Nick had any answers. The lab techs were amazed to learn Grissom's team pulled another all-nighter, which they have been known to do whenever there was a serious case – especially one that involved one of their own. The lab techs offered their support and whatever they could do to help.

Exhausted and running on black coffee for the last twelve hours, Catherine, Warrick and Nick were drained to the point of collapse. Grissom ordered them to go home and sleep. Reluctantly, they obeyed. Grissom, however, was not tired. He decided to take a break from the office and visit Greg at the hospital.

The hallway in intensive care leading to Greg's room was a long stretch. Walking allowed Grissom to gather his thoughts. Somehow, he had to see Greg. Greg was the only link to his attacker. More than anything, Grissom wanted to be there when Greg woke. It was partly to ask him questions and partly just for the sake of letting him know that he wasn't alone.

He turned the knob and stumbled into Greg's room without realizing that Greg had company. Standing by Greg's bedside was a tall attractive woman in a khaki colored safari-style jacket. Her long dark wavy hair reached to the small of her back. She had been fixed on watching Greg sleep. The squeak of the door startled her and she turned around to face Grissom.

"Excuse me. I didn't know anyone was in here." Grissom said sheepishly. He suddenly recognized the woman. He'd met her once before. "Uh – Ms. Hojem?"

Grissom recalled Greg's full name on record - Gregory Hojem-Sanders. The hyphenated last name suggested Greg's parents were not married when they had him. Greg once told him he preferred Sanders to Hojem because it was easier to pronounce and therefore he stuck with Sanders.

"Please, call me Ingrid." The woman said confidently with a slight Norwegian accent.

There was something different about Greg's mother. Grissom couldn't pinpoint what it was. Perhaps it was the extra bounce in her hair or the way she dressed or the sophisticated way she carried herself. Grissom didn't remember her to be quite so – well – beautiful. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it last year when she came to visit Greg after the gang beating.

For a woman in her fifties, Ingrid Hojem preserved her beauty quite well. Just the perfect amount of make up accentuated her face. Her lips were an attractive shade of rose. She had a slender figure with wide shoulders drawn back gracefully. Grissom guessed at some point during her younger years, she must've been a dancer.

"Dr. Grissom, is it?" She spoke and extended a hand for a hand shake.

Something was definitely different about her. She didn't seem entirely angry or upset. On the contrary, she seemed forgiving and accepting.

"Yes. I'm sorry we have to meet like this, Ingrid." He shook her hand. "But we're doing everything we can to find out who did this to your son."

"I know." She replied.

The conversation paused there. They looked at Greg, who was still unconscious. His figure seemed to drown in the sea of wires and tubes attached to his healing body. The artificial respirator was removed and replaced with a small clear plastic oxygen tube inserted into his nostrils, which indicated he was at least able to breath on his own.

"There was a time when I wanted to have lots of children." Ingrid began in a small dreamy voice. "But things changed after Greg was born. I realized that all I really wanted was Greg. I wanted him to have the best life possible. See, I wouldn't be able to do that if I had other children." She paused. "Which is why, you see, I did everything to protect him from getting hurt. A lot of good that did." She gave a nervous laugh. Her eyes seemed to well up with tears.

"You've brought him up very well." Grissom offered.

"Somehow, in my heart, I knew this day would come. I had myself so prepared. I keep telling myself that I have to be brave no matter what happens." Ingrid's voice shook a little. "My opinion – I don't like the path he chosen. But it's not up to me, is it Dr. Grissom? He has a lot of heart in what he does. What kind of mother would I be to stand in the way of his dream?"

"It's only natural for you to be concerned. You're just looking out for him." Grissom said.

"I didn't understand why he wanted to be a CSI. I thought it was too dangerous. I would much prefer him to work in a lab. But even a lab is not 100 safe." She said referring to the accidental lab explosion that happened a few years ago. "I know his job is very important. I came to an understanding with Greg last year. He helps put criminals away and bring closure to families of the victims. I know why he does it now. I'm so very proud of him. I really am."

Grissom was astonished at Ingrid's ability to stay composed. She did not reduce to a bag of tears like he expected – although she came close to it several times. As he listened, Grissom became somewhat star-struck on Ingrid's incredibly beautiful appearance. Her barely detectable Norwegian accent added to her sensuality.

Grissom loved Sara and his heart belonged to her. But that shouldn't make him completely numb to all feelings. With Ingrid, it was just pure infatuation.

"He talks about you all the time. I think he's your biggest fan. When things puzzled him, he used to say WWGD." Ingrid laughed softly.

"WWGD?" Grissom asked inquisitively.

"Oh. It stands for What Would Grissom Do?" Ingrid explained. "He said it was something the team invented."

This caused Grissom to laugh. He had forgotten how good it felt to laugh even in the most trying times.

A pause in conversation occurred as they turned their attention to Greg. The young man showed no signs of waking. His complexion was the same milky white color. The surgery had taken a lot out of him.

"Greg's all I have." Ingrid said with a vulnerable sob. She briefly dabbed her eye with a crumpled old tissue, took a deep breath and quit crying. She was determined not to make herself out to be a bawling martyr.

Grissom asked if she was alright. She nodded but avoided eye contact.

"Jeg vil ta vare på du. (I will take care of you.)" Ingrid whispered in Norwegian as she gently stroked her son's hair.

Grissom was curious to know what she was saying to Greg in her native tongue. But he could probably guess.

"Bli bra snart, min sønn. Jeg elsker deg. (Get well soon, my son. I love you.)" She took Greg's hand and kissed it.

End of Chapter 3

Author's Note: I know I didn't put Greg in this chapter as much. But I felt it was necessary to build on the case first. I'm trying to speed up the case so I could center the story more on Greg. Greg will dominate in the chapters to follow. Meanwhile, who do you think is a good suspect for the murder/shooting? You'll never guess. Ok, maybe you will.

Special thanks to LittleTeaLeaf for helping me with the Norwegian lines at the end!

Please review :)


	4. Brunfelsia Americana

Chapter 4: Brunfelsia Americana

"Brunfelsia Americana." David Hodges piped intelligently as he approached Gil Grissom in the doorway to the trace lab.

Grissom gave Hodges an opportunity to explain himself. But as usual, Hodges had to be obnoxiously philosophical and spoke in riddles hoping to impress. Sometimes, he tried too hard to be the epitome of Grissom.

"Prince Siegfried," Hodges began. "Must declare a wife at his 21st birthday bash. All the royal family and townspeople were invited. But none of the eligible ladies appealed to him. Frustrated, he ditches the party and goes off hunting. In the moonlight, he sees a flock of swans flying overhead. He follows them to a lake and lays low in the grass. Just as he draws his crossbow, he sees one of the swans transform into a beautiful young woman. Astounded by her beauty, he falls in love with her. Odette, the swan, reveals to Prince Siegfried that an evil sorcerer, von Rothbart, used his magic to turn her into a swan by day and woman by night. The spell could only be broken by true love."

"Von Rothbart tries to fool Prince Siegfried into marrying the impostor, Odile, who looks identical to Odette. He falls for the trick but soon realizes the mistake he made when he sees the real Odette through the window. Thus the spell could never be broken. Heartbroken, Prince Siegfried and Odette drowned themselves by jumping into the lake." Grissom finished quickly in an unimpressed tone.

Grissom's all-knowing response stumped Hodges. And for one rare moment, Hodges didn't have anything smart to say.

"Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake has to do with the case, how?" Grissom grumbled impatiently.

Hodges cleared his throat and began again. "The lady of the night."

"This better be good." Grissom's agitated tone made Hodges apprehensive.

"I processed the leaf Nick found at the second crime scene. Brunfelsia Americana, also known as Lady of the Night, is a rare flowering plant indigenous to the West Indies." Hodges explained. "The small white trumpet-like flowers give off a strong spicy-sweet fragrance but only so in the evening. The aroma goes all night long and stops promptly at sunrise. Peculiarly, there is no trace of the fragrance during the day – one of the many mysteries of botany." He tried to add some humor but seeing that Grissom was not in the mood for jokes, he became serious again. "I have the report here."

Grissom took the page from Hodges. He appeared to be engulfed in reading the contents as he walked away leaving the lab tech speechless. Grissom needed to think. It was already established that the vic's murder and Greg's shooting were connected. The bullets came from the same gun. But there was something missing from the big picture. Grissom just couldn't seem to put his finger on it.

He was heading back to his office when Warrick called him from down the hall. Grissom turned around to find Warrick jogging towards him.

"We got a match on the prints." Warrick said. "Marcus Reynolds, the senior staff administrator - you know, the stuffy guy with the mustache – his prints are a match to those found in the car and on the Ben Franklin you pulled from the vic's mouth." He said. "What you got?"

"Maybe nothing." Grissom said regarding the plant analysis. He pressed the speed dial number on his cell phone for Brass. "Do we have the search warrant for the Emerson estate?" He said as soon as the phone was picked up on the other end.

There was a pause.

"Great. We'll meet you there." Grissom said and hung up. "We got the warrant." He said to Warrick.

Warrick had a really good feeling about this. They've been running on empty long enough. It was time for a major breakthrough in the case. Warrick knew something fishy was going on in that house and he was going to get to the bottom of it. The murder weapon had to be somewhere and he would turn the place upside down if he had to.

Two LVPD patrol cars were parked at the end of the long winding driveway to Joanne Emerson's estate. The flashing blue and red lights of the patrol cars had a satirical way of lighting up the fancy estate against the night sky. Grissom, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick spotted Brass when their cars pulled into the driveway. Dressed in a dark suit, Brass was casually leaning on his unmarked vehicle while fanning himself with the search warrant.

Marcus Reynolds answered the door, as usual. Speaking in the typical nonchalant and unaffected tone, he led the group into the foyer. Joanne Emerson came bursting out of one of the rooms and demanded a reason for all the commotion.

When presented with the search warrant, she had no choice but to conform. A police officer escorted her into the parlor. Joanne poured herself a glass of sherry to calm her nerves. She sat down and guzzled half the contents in her glass before coming up for air. With Marcus standing faithfully beside her, she looked like a royal matriarch. Marcus suggested to Joanne that now would be a good time to call a lawyer.

Troubled and starting to lose her cool, Joanne snapped back coldly, "What lawyer? Have you forgotten my lawyer's been murdered?"

Marcus whispered something into her ear and she fell silent again.

"Marcus, we found your prints on the BMW sports coupe as well as a hundred dollar bill recovered from the murder victim's mouth." Grissom directed to the grey haired gentleman.

"It's not uncommon that you should find my prints on the BMW – or any car on the premise for that matter." Marcus refuted. "Ms. Emerson owns a dozen different cars. I have full access to every one of them. As for the bill, I handle petty cash for a few of the employees. I do not keep tabs on how the money travels through hands."

"Which car did you take to pick up Ms. Emerson's dry cleaning?" Grissom asked but he already knew the answer.

"The BMW sports coupe but I can assure you that I brought it right back." Marcus said with a straight face.

"It's really nice that you have the answers to everything. But we confirmed with the cleaners that you picked up at 3:00 pm. It takes roughly ten minutes to make it back here directly so that means there is a whole 45 minutes unaccounted for." Brass said. "Care to explain?"

"Are you suggesting that I killed Johnston?" Marcus flared up at the insult.

"I dunno. Did you?" Brass said.

"Why would I do that?" Marcus challenged. "I have no reason for wanting the man dead."

"We will soon find out." Brass replied. He ordered the search.

With their processing kits in tow, the CSIs were eager to begin. Grissom took the master bedroom with the veranda. Nick took the garage. Catherine took Cody's apartment by the pool. Warrick took Marcus' live-in quarters.

Grissom got on his knees and scoured the carpet for anything out of the ordinary. The oatmeal-colored carpet had gone through a thorough cleaning. Any traces of evidence would've been removed. Grissom pushed the drapes aside and slid open the door to the veranda.

The veranda overlooked the rose garden. Below, there were fountains and statuettes scattered tastefully along a cobblestone path. The veranda was a short 8 x 4 feet platform that extended out of the second story. Twisted wrought iron railing bordered the veranda.

Grissom knelt down and inspected the floor with his Mag-lite. He saw three circular rusted smears on the floor towards the left side of the veranda. It was the mark left by a metal tripod plant stand, which was nowhere to be found. There were no remnants of the plant and clay pot that Joanne and Cody knocked over during their argument. Just as Grissom was about to move onto the next room, he noticed something on the floor reflecting from the shine of his flashlight. He took tweezers from his kit and picked up a tiny fragment of glass. It was the same type of glass particle Greg found under the victim's shoes.

Nick inhaled the stale smell of motor oil and rubber tires as he entered the inner garage. Stepping into that garage was like stepping into a car show. The extended garage was filled with about a dozen cars, all parked neatly in their spaces. The cars ranged from expensive to extremely expensive. There was a good mixture of sports coupes, luxury cars, convertibles, and sedans. Nick couldn't decide on a favorite. It was probably a tie between the Maserati and the Ferrari. Nick sighed enviously and got to work.

There was nothing suspicious about the cars in the garage. But Nick had the pleasure of going through each and every one of them. Glove compartments and trunks turned up clean as well as the rest of the garage. The only car that had any trace of evidence was the BMW sports coupe, which they had already checked.

But there was one thing that was a little peculiar. All the cars in the garage had a full tank of gas except the BMW sports coupe, which was about a quarter empty. It was Joanne's request for all her cars to have a full tank of gas at all times. Apparently, someone neglected to refill the tank of the sports coupe. The car was placed at the crime scene. If only they could find a person to place in the car.

Catherine had a bit more luck than Grissom and Nick. The quaint-looking apartment by the pool was occupied by Joanne's rebellious son, Cody. Catherine went through his apartment with a fine tooth comb. She didn't picture Cody's room to be so organized. But then again, she'd forgotten about the thirty six maids cleaning up after him.

It was a spacious studio apartment with tall glass windows facing the Olympic-sized outdoor pool. Disturbing drawings of demons and miscellaneous contemporary art adorned the walls. A modern kitchen was separated by a marble counter island and leather stools. Three short steps lead to an open bedroom. Aside from a few stray articles of clothing strewn aimlessly on the chairs, it was a pretty comfortable pad.

Catherine searched Cody's desk and found a small pouch of heroin taped to the bottom side of a drawer. She then rummaged through the second drawer filled with all sorts of junk. Finding nothing relevant there, Catherine moved onto the last drawer. Something was jamming the drawer. She gave it a firm tug and the tight drawer flew open. An unmarked silver disk about the size of a CD spun out and landed on the floor. Catherine bagged it. She figured maybe Archie could take a look at it back at the lab.

"Jackpot!" Warrick muttered to himself when he went through Marcus Reynolds' closet.

The small dark cramped closet had a familiar smell of moth balls. Warrick fumbled through Marcus' wardrobe and came across something hidden in the back of the closet. There was an empty black gym bag on the floor. Warrick discovered traces of potting soil stuck to the outside of the bag. He also found potting soil and crushed glass in the rubber soles of a pair of loafers. It placed Marcus and the gym bag in the sports coupe.

Warrick found something more when he accidentally dropped his flashlight. The flashlight rolled into the deep corner of the closet. Just as he reached to retrieve it, he noticed a flaw in the flooring. He pushed aside an old tennis racket and a few yellowing books. A piece of the wooden floor board was loose. Warrick pried it open with the end of a Philips head screwdriver.

The hole was about 8 X 6 inches wide and 4 inches deep. Warrick shined his flashlight over it to see the contents.

"It gets better and better." Warrick said to himself as he reached for his cell phone. "Griss, guess what? I found the murder weapon." He said.

Warrick looped the screwdriver through the gun's trigger guard and carefully removed it from the hiding place. The last thing he wanted to do was to compromise any incriminating prints that may still be on the weapon.

Brass was itching for an arrest and he finally got one. With pleasure, he cuffed Marcus Reynolds, read him his rights, and escorted him to the police vehicles outside. Brass couldn't think of a better way to end the night.

Flabbergasted, Joanne Emerson was left to digest the inconceivable fact that her most loyal employee was capable of murder. Although all the evidence pointed to Marcus, she denied the truth. In a confused but desperate tone, she demanded that this had to be some sort of big mistake. Marcus Reynolds could never do such a horrible thing.

Finding the murder weapon was essential to the pace of the case. It was easy for evidence to disappear over the course of time. Now that they recovered the murder weapon, the team had a better shot of putting the case to bed.

But the case of the murdered lawyer was not closed just yet. There were still a lot of loose ends surrounding the murder that need to be tied.

* * *

Later at the Crime Lab:

"Alright, why don't you make this easy on all of us? What's your motive for whacking the lawyer?" Brass asked patiently in interrogation.

"For the last time, I don't know what you're talking about." Marcus Reynolds stuck to his story.

"C'mon. We found the gun in your closet. And I'll bet your prints are all over it." Brass pushed.

The interrogation room was cold and the glare of the fluorescent lights was starting to hurt Grissom's eyes. A long card table separated Brass and the suspect. Six metal chairs circulated the table. There were no windows and the walls were painted an unappealing split pea soup color.

Marcus was disciplined to remain calm at all times but his uneasiness was starting to show. He shifted nervously in his chair.

"Look, the gun is mine. But I didn't use it to kill anyone. Some one set me up." He said. His eyes were stone cold.

"The potting soil and glass we found on your shoes match those we found in the BMW and at the crime scene." Grissom said as he spread out a bunch of photographs onto the table. "All the evidence points to you, Marcus."

"Who are you protecting? Perhaps it's your employer, Joanne Emerson?" Brass tried a different approach. Two hours into interrogation and they were going around in circles because his suspect refused to budge.

"No. Leave her out of this." Marcus said a little too quickly.

"Maybe she was in on it. Did she hire a hit on our vic?" Brass accused.

"That's absurd! This has nothing to do with her." Marcus fumed. "Joanne is a good person. She's given back so much to the community. She's a giver, not a taker. She would never take anyone's life."

"Ooo, touchy subject." Brass said and mocked him by drawing his hands back.

There was a small knock on the door to the interrogation room. The door opened.

"'Scuse me." Nick said as he stood in the doorway. "Grissom, can I borrow you for a minute? Something you gotta see."

His seriousness grew when his eyes fell upon Marcus. The adrenaline in his blood rushed as he stood only a few feet away from the probable person who might have put a bullet into Greg. If it wasn't for Grissom, in three seconds, he would've torn Marcus into shreds.

Grissom got up and backed Nick through the door. Nick never took his eyes off Marcus.

"Nick, remember. I need you to be a hundred percent with me on this." Grissom warned.

"That scum bag shot Greg." He blurted.

"It's a bit premature to say that. You don't know if that's for a fact yet. Until we have the prints from the gun or a confession, he's still a suspect." Grissom said.

Nick held his tongue and bit back his anger. He didn't want to give Grissom a reason to take him off the case, especially since they were so close to getting their guy.

"Where are we headed?" Grissom asked while following Nick down the hall.

"Audio/Video. Archie's got something." Nick answered.

The audio/video computer lab was bigger than many of the other labs in the department but with all the machinery, it felt like the size of a broom closet. There were no windows in this room, due to the fact that sunlight was not good for the equipment.

Grissom and Nick arrived shortly to find Catherine and Warrick standing behind Archie watching the monitor intently.

"Hey." Catherine said as she looked up. "This was the disc I found in the son's apartment." She said.

"It's scratched and the quality of the disk is very poor, but I tweaked it and was able to pull a few minutes of video." Archie said and pressed the play button on the keyboard. "I hope you got your popcorn ready because this is a really interesting movie."

A flicker of static snow was followed by a few distorted lines running across the middle of the screen. The image appeared to be someone's bedroom. Judging from the angle of the recording, the camera seemed to be stationed somewhere on a high shelf across the room. As the picture cleared a little, it was obvious that it was a motel room.

Two figures entered the picture. The faces were blurred and barely recognizable. There was some jumbled conversation but nothing relevant. The screen flickered again. This time, it showed one of the figures - a woman - bending over an end table and snorting a powdery substance. After a few minutes, she took out something that resembled a meth pipe. A man entered the picture and handed her a tiny pouch containing meth crystals.

Soon after the drugs and booze, they began ripping each other's clothes off. The figures moved onto the bed. The loud and promiscuous sexual moans and grunts of the video awkwardly filled the audio/video lab.

For a good minute and a half, everyone in the lab seemed engrossed in the contents of the racy video. The orgasmic sounds and degree of sexual activity of the video were rather distracting and appalling. There were a lot of extra groping and fondling as the two completely naked bodies managed some very eyebrow-raising positions. Simultaneously, everyone tilted their heads to the left as they followed the direction of the figures in the video.

"Can they even do that?" Warrick said in an amazed but disgusted voice.

"Apparently so." Nick replied without tearing his eyes away from the screen.

"There's more." The Asian lab tech said as he stopped the video. "I enhanced the resolution of the picture." He punched in some keys and zoomed in on the faces of the man and woman. "And guess who the stars of our tryst are?" He pressed the final button and sat back rather pleased with himself.

Everyone watched the screen as the faces in the image became clearer and clearer.

"That's Joanne Emerson." Catherine gasped.

"Is that? No, it can't be. She's with our vic – Johnston Cubs?!" Nick said when he recognized the man.

"Something's going on and Joanne's right in the center of it." Warrick said.

"Yeah, and that's probably called blackmail." Archie answered on a whim.

"She was pretty high on speed there. I don't think she knew she was being taped." Catherine said.

"She's like Las Vegas' own modern day Mother Theresa. But from the looks of things, she's got a skeleton or two in the closet. Just think of the damage it'll do to her name if someone gets their hands on this." Nick said.

"We just have to figure out who was blackmailing Joanne and who got double crossed." Grissom said. "The son, the hired help, or the lawyer?"

"The disk was found in Cody's room, the gun was found in Marcus' room, and both suspects have potting soil and glass particles on their shoes. The prints from the sports coupe and bill are a match to Marcus. Potting soil and crushed glass were found in the car – plus tread marks – places the sports coupe at the crime scene. We know now that Johnston Cubs was not only Joanne's lawyer, he was also her lover and snuff buddy." Catherine recapped.

"Mandy's working on getting the prints off the gun right now." Nick said.

"The transfer on the gym bag suggests it was in the car - probably on the floor of the passenger side. I processed the bag and found a small corner of a paper-like material stuck in the folds. Analysis came back 75 cotton and 25 linen." Warrick said.

"Dollar bills." Nick said.

"Bingo." Warrick concurred. "It was the money bag."

After thanking Archie for his findings, Nick and Catherine went on their way to the Mandy's fingerprint lab to get updates on the prints from the gun. Warrick walked Grissom back to interrogation.

* * *

Back in Interrogation:

"We know about the sex tapes." Brass said to Marcus. "We know what Ms. Emerson likes to do in her spare time."

Marcus said nothing but he somehow knew it was over. They found the disk. They were going to find out the truth sooner or later.

"Just tell us what happened." Brass demanded.

"The Emerson's took me in. They cared when no one else did. For that, I promised to be loyal to them." Marcus stammered. "I've worked for the Emerson's for the last forty five years and they've shown me nothing but kindness. I would never hurt them. In fact, I'd do anything to protect them."

"Even commit murder." Brass said.

Grissom was in the room but he remained silent. He was always more of the observer rather than the moderator.

"You make it sound so malevolent." Marcus replied scornfully.

"Yea, homicide is so overrated these days." Brass said. One could sense the monotony in his voice.

"Johnston Cubs was a selfish bastard. He didn't care about Ms. Emerson or the reputation that he was ruining. He was only after her money." Marcus said. "He was nothing but a blood-sucking leech."

"So, you killed the guy." Brass tried to cut to the chase. It was a long night and he wanted to wrap things up, put the bad guy away, and go home.

"Ms. Emerson was a respectable lady until he came along." Marcus ignored Brass' comment. "He was very charismatic and fed her lies, but I saw right through him. I tried to warn her and she dismissed it. She was just an old cougar to him. She said it was love. I knew his love for her wasn't real."

"But your love for her was." Grissom said. It was the first time he said anything. "You did what you did out of love."

"Yes." Marcus replied after a moment of hesitation. He was starting to break.

"Surely, we understand that." Grissom shot a glance at Brass to go along with it.

"The son of a bitch deserved to die." Marcus said bitterly.

"Well, someone had to do it." Brass said. His voice lacked sensitivity. "To protect the family name, of course." He added, when he caught Grissom's stare.

"Johnston threatened to go public with the video. He said he wanted one million dollars – cash – in exchange for the disk. I told him I didn't have that kind of money. But he knew exactly where to get it from – the Emerson Cancer Foundation. He knew I was given access to the funds from that charity." Marcus explained. "We agreed to meet in the alley at 3:30 pm."

"You had something else in mind. That's why you brought the gun." Brass said.

"That money was for the foundation. Gerald Emerson, Ms Emerson's father, established it when he was diagnosed with cancer. The foundation was built to provide funds in hopes of helping people with the disease. I just couldn't allow Johnston to take that away." Marcus said. "But I had no choice, you see. We met at the alley, made the exchange, and when he turned around, I shot him in the head. It was me – I did it. I killed Johnston." He confessed. He hung his head down.

"So, why'd you come back to the crime scene four hours later?" Brass said.

Marcus appeared genuinely surprised but he collected himself fairly quickly. He remained silent and stared at the crack on the table. It was like as if he didn't understand what Brass just said.

"You already have one count of voluntary manslaughter under your belt." Brass said. "You shot a CSI. He's fighting for his life right now and if our guy dies, you'll be charged with another count of manslaughter. It should put you away for a long time."

Marcus looked frightened for a second. Then he recoiled and hardened.

"I was worried about returning the money. I had to return it before anyone noticed it was missing. After returning it, I realized I dropped the disk. So, I had to go back to get it. You guys caught me off guard and I panicked." Marcus admitted. "I didn't mean for anyone else to get hurt."

"How did the disk end up in the son's room?" Brass asked.

"He took it." Marcus said.

"You expect me to believe that?" Brass said.

"Ms. Emerson and Cody had problems. Just because they were at each other's throats 90 percent of the time, didn't mean they didn't stick together when the going got tough. They were family. Blood's thicker than water. Cody said he would dispose of the disk." Marcus paused. "It was all me. I confess. I planned everything. I killed Johnston Cubs. And it was me who shot the CSI." He said to throw suspicion off the others.

Soon after, an officer came and took Marcus Reynolds away in cuffs. Pleased that this was finally moving in the right direction, Brass smiled and followed them into booking. Grissom was left alone in the interrogation room to gather his papers.

He couldn't help but feel the confession was a little too convenient.

* * *

At the Hospital:

It was exactly eight hours since Grissom's last visit. The nurses in intensive care told him Greg showed no signs of waking yet. Greg was still asleep. There were no major changes in his condition. The long and tedious surgery left his body weak and exhausted.

Grissom pulled up a chair and sat beside Greg in the semi-dark room. The only light came from the headboard above Greg's bed. The soft white glow made Greg's face paler yet rather angelic at the same time. Grissom watched him sleep.

The oxygen tubes inserted into the young man's nostrils ran across his cheeks. He looked so vulnerable and helpless. Grissom's worried eyes never left the direction of Greg's face. For the first time, Grissom noticed Greg's beauty. It wasn't something that he ever thought about before. Maybe it was because he never had the opportunity to take a good look at Greg until now.

There was something innocent about Greg's youthful facial features. He had attractive high cheekbones, long eyelashes, and a perfectly straight nose, all of which he inherited from his mother. A small scatter of playful freckles on his cheeks made him appear impish. Grissom frowned at Greg's purplish lips and dark circles around the eyes, probably acquired from the excessive blood loss. Greg's sickly appearance was devastating.

"Biggest fan, huh?" Grissom said in a low tone. He watched the rise and fall of Greg's chest.

For the next hour and a half, he sat holding vigil over Greg. He couldn't stop thinking about the past. He started questioning himself as a supervisor. Had he been too hard on Greg all these years? Did he push him too far? Perhaps he knew Greg's potential and capabilities too well and he, too, had taken advantage of it. Greg was smart and exceptional at his job. Maybe in some selfish way, Grissom took it for granted. There were many times he wanted to sit Greg down and let him know in length what an asset he was to the team. Why didn't that ever happen? What kept him from expressing his satisfaction? Greg was important to the team. Now, Grissom may never have the chance to tell him.

Grissom would give anything to have the old Greg back. As much as he denied it, he enjoyed the comic relief Greg brought to the office. It kept things entertaining and whimsical. Sticking markers up his nose, donning a showgirl's headdress while dancing in the hallway, and jamming to some loud punk music wearing a latex glove on his head were the Greg antics that Grissom remembered.

The hypnotic sounds of heart monitors and other machines in the room made Grissom drowsy. He was starting to doze off when a sound got his attention. It was a soft moan coming from Greg. Grissom drew closer to the bed.

Greg stirred in his sleep. The slow wiggle of his fingers was followed by a slight tilt of his head. His eyes were still closed.

"Mom." Greg mumbled hoarsely. His breathing quickened.

There was something about the tender way Greg called for his mom that Grissom found pitiful yet sweet. Even his heart melted a little.

"Mom?" Greg whimpered. His eyes peeled open to find Grissom staring squarely at him. A tinge of embarrassment hit and he didn't quite know how to save himself from showing his vulnerable side. Crying for his mom in front of his boss was probably the last thing he needed to do. Perhaps it was excusable given the circumstances.

"Greg?" Grissom said carefully.

"Am I dead?" Greg murmured feebly after a short pause.

"No, far from it. You're at the hospital." Grissom replied.

A moan escaped Greg's lips when he tried to move. It was pretty obvious that he was in a great deal of pain.

"How do you feel?" Grissom asked.

"Hurts when I move." Greg's voice came in a raspy whisper, but Grissom was able to read his lips. Greg swallowed and took a drag on the oxygen. "Hurts even more when I breathe."

"You'll get better." Grissom said.

"My mom…" Greg began. His voice shook.

"She knows." Grissom interjected. "She's been with you all night. Right now, she's asleep. It's late – about 3 in the morning."

"She came?" Greg said.

"Yes, in the next room. Flew in the minute she heard the news." Grissom said.

"Was she – did she freak out?" He stammered.

Grissom thought it was interesting how much Greg worried about disappointing his mother. If only he knew how proud his mother was of him.

"No, but she was very worried about you. We all were. You gave us quite a scare." Grissom said. "Do you remember what happened?" He said after a pause.

"Yea." Greg said with a quivered sigh.

They caught each other's stare. And in a matter of seconds, Greg's eyes welled up with tears. No one was allowed to cry in front of Grissom unless they had a damn good reason. Greg tried so hard to be strong and brave but he just couldn't anymore. He didn't have it in him. His boss was going to see him cry and there was nothing he could do about it.

"I'm sorry." Greg choked. His chin quivered and a few tears rolled down his cheeks. He had to look away.

"You have nothing to be sorry about." Grissom said sternly.

Grissom did not allow himself to break down regardless of how truly heartbreaking it was to watch his subordinate suffer the consequences of his irresponsibility.

"I screwed up again." Greg sobbed.

"You didn't do anything wrong." Grissom said. "I should have been there."

Greg swallowed hard and made an attempt to stop bawling but it was hard. Once the dam of tears burst, there was no turning back. The reasons for his tears were mixed – most of which were centered by fear and pain. The burden he felt was immense. He let down Grissom. He let down his team. And most of all, he let down himself. Out of despair, he cried.

"You're gonna be ok. You'll get through this." Grissom offered. "You've been out cold for almost 48 hours. It's natural to feel a little overwhelmed and disoriented when you first wake – maybe even scared."

"I'm not scared." Greg lied. Meanwhile, a few more tears rolled down his face.

"You know, Nick, Warrick, and Catherine have been working non-stop. They wouldn't quit until they found the person who did this to you." Grissom said tenderly.

Greg tried to fight the tears but they kept coming out.

"No one's going to hurt you anymore. We have the guy in custody." Grissom said.

"You do?"

Grissom nodded. "It was a case filled with lovers and blackmail. The man's name was Marcus Reynolds. He was a 62 year old man-servant. He confessed to everything. I'll tell you all about it when you feel better."

"He confessed to shooting me?" Greg questioned curiously.

"Yes, that's right."

"The man who shot me wasn't that old." Greg rambled and breathed deeply.

"What are you talking about, Greg?"

"I saw him. I mean, I didn't see his face. But he – he was quick and agile." Greg swallowed to moisten his mouth. "He's not 62."

"Are you sure?" Grissom asked seriously.

"Um-hm. He was like maybe late twenties, early thirties. You know, like my age. He was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt and jeans. After he shot me, he went over to the dumpster and picked up something. I couldn't see what it was. Then he ran and jumped over a fence."

"Did you see his face at all?"

"No. He had a hood over his head. He was about 5'10", I think." Greg said.

Grissom looked troubled. "Greg, is there anything else you remember about him?"

"Everything happened so fast." Greg muttered. His face twitched slightly in a wince. In desperation, he inhaled oxygen deeply.

A few more tears followed. The pain made everything worse. He suddenly felt sick but was too proud to admit it in front of Grissom. However, Grissom had a way of knowing things by pure observation. Without a word, he rang for the nurse.

The nurse came and injected a stronger dose of pain killers into Greg's IV. Soon after this was done, she left the room.

"I'm sorry I don't remember anything else." Greg sighed. The drugs pumped through his veins with force.

"You've been a big help already." Grissom said.

Greg was gradually losing the fight to stay awake. It was hard to compete with another 15 mg of morphine. Every muscle in his body ached and his head felt like it weighed a ton on his shoulders. The drugs were powerful.

The drugs made his brain a little fuzzy and he decided that he rather liked the idea of waking up to see Grissom by his bedside. Greg couldn't tell how long Grissom had been sitting there in the dark. But it made a difference knowing he was there.

"Grissom?"

"What?"

"Don't you have something better to do that to stick around here?"

"There's no place I'd rather be." Grissom said. "Besides, I promised your mother I'd watch you while she slept.

"Can you – can you tell her that I'm ok?" Greg's speech slurred as the drugs took over. "She worries a lot, you know."

"You should rest now." Grissom said.

Greg could hardly keep his eyes open and soon surrendered to the wrath of the drugs. Small muscle spasms shook his body as he drifted off into sleep. The slight jerking of the muscles that were supposed to be normal and calming actually bothered Grissom. Somehow, it was kind of scary and disturbing to watch Greg twitch like that.

"We still need you, Greg. You've done us proud. Don't give up." Grissom whispered. He knew Greg didn't hear him. It was so much easier talking to an unconscious person.

Grissom sat with him for another fifteen minutes before getting up to leave. He had to get back to the office. The case was not over yet. They had the right guy for the murder, but the wrong guy for Greg's shooter. Marcus Reynolds was covering for someone. And that someone was still out there.

The word "Brunfelsia Americana" echoed in Grissom's head.

End of Chapter 4

Author's Note: Thanks for reading!! :)


	5. Just the Beginning

Chapter 5: Just the Beginning

"Nick." Grissom said into his cell phone as he drove down East Washington Avenue and made a left turn at the intersection onto North Mojave Road. He glanced at the time on the dashboard. It was a few minutes after 4 am and most of the night shift was in their way out. "Are you still at the lab?"

"Yea." Nick replied as he headed to the locker room. "Is everything ok?"

"I'm on my way back to the lab. I just came from the hospital. Greg woke." Grissom said.

"Really!? That's great. We were just about to go visit him. How is he?" Nick interjected.

"He's in a lot of pain. He passed out before I left." Grissom answered.

"Poor guy." Nick said. "I feel a little better knowing that we got the man responsible."

"Actually, we don't." Grissom said as he came to a complete stop at a traffic light. "Well, not yet." He shuffled the phone between his shoulder and chin.

"What do you mean?" Nick stopped in his tracks.

"Marcus killed Johnston but he didn't shoot Greg."

"How do you know this?"

"Greg told me."

"Did he see his attacker?" Nick's heart was beginning to pound violently against his chest.

"Not exactly." Grissom said as he continued driving down the street. "I need you to look at the file again. I have a question – about the gardener."

Warrick sensed something was up when he saw Nick scamper down the hall cradling a cell phone to his ear. Curious, he followed after Nick into Grissom's office. Warrick stood in the doorway and watched Nick grab a thick file off the desk labeled Case # 850-199.

"Ok, I have it here." Nick said as he thumbed through the papers. "His name was Emilio Escobar. What do you need to know?"

"Did he say what kind of plant it was that Joanne Emerson and her son knocked over when they were arguing on the veranda?"

Nick flipped a few more pages and skimmed the contents. "Yea, says here it was a Lady of the Night." He stopped short when he read those words. He suddenly knew what Grissom was thinking.

"Analysis on the leaf I found at the crime scene came back also from the same type of plant. The leaf must've transferred onto the suspect's clothing and dropped later when he returned to the crime scene to retrieve the disk Marcus lost. Whoever shot Greg was also on that veranda. Joanne Emerson had an airtight alibi that afternoon. At least twenty people could vouch for her being present at the fundraiser. That leaves only one other person. Son of a bitch." Nick muttered in disbelief.

"Call Brass." Grissom instructed. "I'll be there in five minutes." He added before hanging up.

Nick filled Warrick in on the new development shortly after calling Brass. Warrick, of course, was eager to stick around and assist in any way he could. Catherine was in her office reapplying lipstick when Warrick knocked on her door. He relayed the events and she, too, decided to stay.

Pulling some overtime was anything but a nuisance, especially when the case involved one of their own. Grissom's team was different than any other team in the department. They were friends first and colleagues second. It was their strong friendships that made working together gratifying. They would do anything to help each other out.

Being the youngest member of the team, was not an excuse for Greg. He often took everything as a challenge, which was why he never complained about doing any of the dirty work. He proved his competence by working back to back shifts during the most trying times. It was in Greg's nature to help others. He would do it for the sake of the team and the team would do the same for him. Vengeance for Greg was priority on everyone's list.

Thin streaks of light stretching across the dark sky indicated dawn was breaking. At the end of their shift on a normal day, Grissom and his team would be having breakfast together at the Vegas Diner on Sahara Avenue. They were considered the "regulars" and had a usual table in the rear of the diner. Grissom would order fruit and oatmeal, and warn the younger ones about the hazards of cholesterol, which they all ignored. Nick would try to hit on the waitress, who always turned him down. Warrick would poke fun at Nick for his brave attempts. Catherine would complain about the bacon not being turkey bacon. Greg would enjoy his spicy breakfast burrito and appreciate the company of his extended family.

The routine came to a halt as Greg's life lay on the line.

* * *

In Interrogation:

"You have nothing on me." Cody Michaels yelled crossly after roughly one hour of questioning. "I'm innocent."

"Oh really?" Brass said in a monotone. "Then why'd you run?"

"You made me nervous." Cody replied coldly as he slouched in his chair.

Cody was dressed all in black. Fashionable chains hung from his designer ripped jeans. A colorful tattoo of a dragon spiraled down the side of his neck and disappeared into a black screen tee. His sporty jacket hid all traces of any tattoos on his arms. A sterling silver loop and stud adorned the side of his nostrils.

"You must really think I was born yesterday." Brass leaned forward. He had very little patience for Cody at this point.

Brass had been sleeping when he got Nick's call. Tired and irritated, he rolled out of bed and got dressed. It came with the territory. The job required him to be on 24 hour standby. He valued whatever down time he could get. He didn't hate his job. He only wished he had time to sleep.

"What's in it for you?" Brass inquired.

"Why are you in my face?" Cody retorted rudely.

"Because you shot a CSI." Brass shot back.

"You can't pin it on me. You can't pin nuthin' on me." Cody shouted.

"Alright, we know Johnston taped all the things that could go wrong with a reputation for a humanitarian. He was going to use it to blackmail your mother, but he found an easier target - Marcus. Johnston found out Marcus was in love with your mother and love – well – it's a splendid thing. It could possess someone to kill. To make a long story short, the million dollar exchange went sour and Johnston took a bullet to the back of the head." Brass recalled.

"That's got nuthin' to do with me." Cody challenged toughly. "I didn't kill nobody."

"Marcus was preoccupied with returning the money and only realized much later that the disk was missing. He figured he dropped it in the alley. He told you. You took his gun – just in case – and went back to the crime scene. When you ran into our CSI in the alley, you shot him – point blank." Brass said.

"We have evidence that places you at the crime scene." Grissom said. He was disgusted by Cody's smugness.

Grissom lined up several pictures in front of Cody. The first picture showed an image of a green leaf with a 5 cm photo ruler.

"What's this supposed to be?" Cody asked.

"This leaf was found by the dumpster. It came from the same plant you knocked over on the veranda in your mother's bedroom." Grissom explained. He pointed to the second picture. "This is a glass particle that was found in the same bedroom. It matches to the crushed glass found all over the crime scene and a piece we found on your shoe. You were there." He flipped over several pictures.

"That's all you got?" Cody laughed. "That doesn't prove anything."

"Oh, but I'm not done. I have the report containing the fingerprints we lifted from the gun. We pulled two sets of prints from it. One belonged to Marcus and the other belongs to you." Grissom said. Cody's sly facial expression turned serious.

"And that places you at the crime scene with the gun in your hand." Brass summed up. "No way out of it now."

Cody cussed under his breath. "I told the damn retard to wipe the gun off." He mumbled impulsively. Realizing what he just said, he ran a nervous hand through his slick black hair.

"Hard to find good accomplices these days, huh?" Brass said rhetorically.

"I'm not sayin' another word. I want a lawyer." Cody demanded.

"Of course you do." Brass sighed. He opened the door and motioned for an officer to come. "Cuff him and take him away." He instructed.

Although Cody did not openly admit to shooting Greg, it was pretty obvious he pulled the trigger. He would be tried for attempted murder, given the fact that Greg survives. Upon resolving the case, Grissom stood in the interrogation room looking triumphantly at the two-way mirror. He knew Catherine, Warrick, and Nick were on the other side watching and listening.

There was no need for cheers or jubilant expressions of relief. On the contrary, they knew in their hearts that justice prevailed for Greg. If the cards are played right, Cody Michaels would be put away for a long time. There were no doubts.

The only hurdle left was hoping their dear friend would recover from the near fatal blow. It left Greg in such bad shape that even Grissom had qualms. Greg's chances for a full recovery seemed uncertain due to the extent of internal damage. The good news was that his heart was still holding on. After a grueling surgery, the ability to continue the fight was questionable. This worried Grissom greatly. And these were the thoughts he kept to himself.

Being wrapped up in solving the case, the others did not get a chance to visit Greg at the hospital. Catherine, Warrick, and Nick were glad the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. It was time to see Greg.

* * *

In Greg's Room at the Hospital:

Greg was asleep when Grissom, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick entered the room. They were instantly reminded of how fragile Greg became. The polka-dotted hospital gown he wore appeared a few sizes too big for him. A cream-colored textured thermal blanket covered his waist down. The colors of his gown and blanket coincidentally matched the hospital bracelet strapped to his bony right wrist. A pulse oximeter sensor clip was clipped over the index finger of his left hand to monitor the oxygen level in his blood. An IV was inserted and secured into the crook of his left elbow.

"Wow, the medication really knocked him out." Catherine said.

"Maybe it's better for him to be this way, at least for a while. He won't be in constant pain." Nick said as he stared at Greg's chest. His wandering eyes were obsessively curious to know what the scar looked like.

"I hate to say it, but the kid looks terrible." Warrick said with a grimace. "It's still so hard to believe that this happened – especially to Greg. We were supposed to look out for him." He added.

"We did a pretty lousy job of that." Catherine said.

"Sometimes, you really don't know what you got until it's gone." Grissom said without taking his eyes off Greg.

"We take him for granted, don't we?" Nick finally admitted. He happened to have read everyone's mind. "I mean, if you think about it, we've treated him pretty harsh."

"Yea, he doesn't deserve that. He's always done his job efficiently and in a timely manner. We should be glad he's on our team." Warrick said.

"I wonder if he knows we're here and how much we care about him." Catherine sighed with a heavy heart. She touched his hand.

"He knows we're here." Grissom said. But whether or not he knew how much they cared was another story – especially since no one ever told him.

There was silence in the room. They watched Greg for a while and got lost in their own thoughts.

Grissom was thinking about possible complications surrounding Greg's condition. Just about a thousand things could go wrong in the next few days. It was not just a minor graze or a flesh wound. He would've died instantly had the bullet gone two inches to the left and pierced his heart. He barely escaped the hands of death. The collapsed lung certainly didn't help either.

Catherine tried to smile and keep her hopes up. She wondered how someone so dedicated and praiseworthy could end up like this. Greg was so young and yet seemed to have lived a whole lifetime in the course of just several days. Catherine's maternal instincts drew her to Greg's sympathy. She affectionately held Greg's hand and wished her tender thoughts would magically transfer through.

When Warrick first joined the team, he never anticipated to become so attached to his colleagues. He figured his function was to do a job and get paid – plain and simple. Friendship was always there but Warrick didn't look for it. He'd lost too many friends from gunshot wounds in his day. Living in a rough neighborhood exposed him to all sorts of violence at an early age. His grandmother used to tell him to stay away from the windows at night – a smart piece of advice. But dodging bullets were a thing of the past, as was his mentality on not needing friends. He needed for Greg to be ok. He didn't want Greg to become another statistic.

Nick silently prayed and bargained for Greg's well-being. The unfortunate outcome of this incident traumatized him the most because he and Greg were close. It was like almost losing a brother. After the gang beating, Nick promised himself that he would look after Greg and keep him out of trouble. He never expected this to happen – not in a million years. Getting shot was an extreme that could result in death. The unfair thought of losing Greg made him tear up.

"Greg, if you can hear me – please know that we're all here for you." Catherine said softly as she squeezed Greg's limp hand.

"Yea, so don't you dare think about pulling a fast one over us." Warrick said to the unconscious figure in the bed. "No evil thoughts, Greg. We want you to get well." He added.

"If you make it through this, I promise to cut you some slack and not pick on you-" Nick said to Greg with a straight face then he softened and added, "well, as much." He darted a humorous look at Warrick, who gave him an all-knowing grin. "What? Things just wouldn't be the same if I didn't pick on Greg _sometimes_." Nick said defensively to Warrick.

"You're a bully." Warrick said.

"Hey, I wouldn't call it that. It's more like some harmless teasing." Nick shrugged.

"Nope. Bully." Warrick insisted amicably. "Greg's been a real sport putting up with your habits."

"Leggo my Greggo." Nick blurted in jest. Suddenly, all the good humor vanished from his face and his eyes brimmed with tears. It was coming to the realization that he may never get a chance to use that phrase again.

'Leggo my Greggo' had a history and went back a long way. Ironically, Nick created it after watching one too many Eggo Waffle commercials on TV. The name stuck with Greg ever since his early days working in the lab. People often mistook it for the possession tense. But it wasn't about ownership at all. Nick considered the nifty phrase to be equivalent to that of a secret handshake between good friends.

"It's ok." Warrick said as he put a comforting hand on Nick's shoulder.

"This is just not right." Nick rubbed the bridge of his nose in hopes of distracting his tears from falling. He cleared the salty lump in his throat and took a moment to compose himself.

Grissom was the only one in the room who hadn't said anything yet. He was not one to pour heartfelt confessions in front of his subordinates. Keeping things inside was often his specialty. This was truly a difficult time for him. Had it been anything else, he would have done anything in his power to make things right. Even Ecklie thought Grissom had a miraculous hand in getting his team out of general messes. Grissom knew the system and knew the loopholes. But this situation was different. There was nothing he could do to help Greg. And thus, he felt defeated.

Greg stirred uncomfortably in his sleep. His face flinched as pain rattled his body. He struggled a bit with drawing in oxygen from the tubes that were inserted up his nose. His chest fiercely rose and fell a few times, which led the others to assume Greg was waking. But he only mumbled something incoherently and continued sleeping. They stared sympathetically at Greg, who was now sleeping with lips slightly parted.

"You're safe now, Greg. He's going to jail for a long time." Catherine spoke tenderly. She looked up and said, "We got our man, so why do I still feel like it's not enough?"

"It's because Greg's our friend." Warrick replied. "That makes it worse."

"I can't begin to imagine the amount of pain he must be in." Nick said.

"He's got a long road ahead of him." Warrick said and shook his head in dismay.

"Yea, but we'll help him out. Whatever it takes." Catherine blinked back her tears. She gave Greg's hand another squeeze.

Grissom was envious of his team's ease at expressing their feelings. He, on the other hand, still remained silent. Being speechless did not mean he didn't care as much as the others. He felt just as bad, if not more.

Grissom, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick stayed with Greg for a while. The doctor came on his rounds and Grissom had a few words with him on Greg's prognosis. Later, a nurse sauntered in to check on the patient. Shortly after, Ingrid Hojem returned to her son's room, where she ran into the group.

The reunion was anything but bitter. No hard feelings lingered from their last meeting under similar, but less life-threatening, circumstances. Grissom wasn't the only person who thought Ingrid seemed altogether different. Her attitude on the situation was rather mellow and poised. Of course, Ingrid was devastated and had her share of tears, but she was no longer the unforgiving, blame-shifting, frayed, hot-headed mother that they knew.

Her look was subdued despite the blood shot eyes from too much crying. Even then, she looked beautiful. She wore a tonal embroidered peasant blouse with a long mocha brown gauze skirt that reached her ankles. Her wavy hair was tied back with a band.

Perhaps she was the epitome of Aphrodite or a descendant of Venus. There was something unexplainable that shed an unusual light on Ingrid. How did she become so beautiful in the course of just one year? Why hadn't they noticed it before?

After many lengthy phone conversations with her son, Ingrid came to a realization. Greg knew what he wanted. He was clear on how he wanted to live his life. Proud to have such a selfless son, she gradually accepted Greg's involvement in becoming a field investigator. Greg was never short of details when it came to describing his colleagues. And for this reason alone, Ingrid had a sense of their characters.

Because they went out of their way to visit, Ingrid knew Greg wasn't exaggerating when he told her his teammates were his good friends. They wouldn't have been there if they didn't care. For this, she was grateful. It was comforting to know that his friends looked out for him. Across the miles, it was difficult for her to be there for her son all the time. Las Vegas was a long way from New York – 2,570 miles to be exact.

Ingrid's decision to move to New York was fuelled by two things - the need for a fresh start in life and Mama Olaf's secret rullekake recipe. Armed with an ambition and a lump sum of money, she moved to New York City shortly after Greg graduated from Stanford University. She felt it was time to introduce the world to Mama Olaf's delicious pastry recipes. And with New York's diversity, Ingrid felt it was just want she needed to jump-start her business. She managed to open a small Norwegian bakery in the heart of Soho featuring the best of Mama Olaf's baked goods.

Greg was brought up primarily in San Gabriel, California. He did not have much of a father figure in his younger years. His biological father was in and out of the picture and often "too busy" to do things with him. Eventually, he took light of not feeling wanted by his father. As much hurt as he felt, he tried to not let it bother him and valued what little good times he did manage to spend with him. Whatever he lacked in paternal love, his mother made up in maternal love.

Greg lived a brief stint in New York until a job offer with the Las Vegas Crime Lab brought him back west. The distance was inconvenient but he always "went home" during the holidays. Working the night shift in addition to the time zone difference made keeping in touch with his mother a bit of a challenge.

Ingrid was not an overbearing mother. Her only problem was that she missed Greg terribly. Although Greg loved his mother dearly, he had always been the independent type and joked about liking solitude. On the rare occasions when he did see her, he enjoyed the company immensely.

Greg's hospitalization caused more than a stir. His hospital room was crowded with people who cared about him. He was oblivious to the circle of worried faced looking down on him. It really would've surprised him if he woke up at that instant.

Touched by everyone's involvement, Ingrid thanked them courteously for their concerns and devotion. And they, in turn, offered their support and insisted that if there was anything they could do, to just name it. After a lengthy stay, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick left the hospital. However, Grissom remained a little while longer.

"You don't have to stay." Ingrid spoke softly. They sat on plastic chairs on either side of Greg's bed.

"I know." Grissom replied. "But I want to."

"You care a lot about my son." Ingrid observed.

"I do." Grissom admitted. "He's my responsibility. They all are."

"It's not your fault, you know." Ingrid noticed the worry lines etched in Grissom's face.

"In a way, it is." Grissom said. "I'm the head supervisor. I was supposed to look out for my team. This never should've happened."

"You shouldn't blame yourself. I don't think Greg would've blamed you." She said. "This," Her eyes glanced over her son's mangled body. "This was a horrible unavoidable circumstance."

Their eyes met for a brief moment of understanding.

* * *

Meanwhile:

Somewhere in the depths of Greg's dream world, he was running from red-faced demons wearing grey hooded sweatshirts. The hamster wheel chase seemed to go nowhere. No matter how fast he tried to run, it seemed like he was not putting any distance between him and the demon. The dark forest tangled with thick trees and foliage swirled around him as he sought for a way out.

Breathless, he kept on running regardless of the fact that his legs ached from fatigue. Ghastly sounds of wind whistled in his eardrums. The uneven ground beneath his bare feet swelled with protruding roots. He brought his arms up to shield himself from being hit in the face by branches as he ran aimlessly. Thorns pricked his bare feet with the weight of each running step. Bruised and bleeding, he ignored the pain and continued onward. The merciless demons snarled angrily as they bounced off the trees.

Greg frantically searched for a way out of the forest. Suddenly, a careless trip over a tree root sent him flying onto the ground head first. He ate a mouth full of dirt as he lay sprawled on his stomach. The sound of wings fluttering filled the air for a moment, and then all was quiet. He whipped his head around to find one of the demons standing above him.

Petrified, Greg stared at the sharp claws on the demon's hand. The demon brought one of the claws towards Greg and cut him squarely on the cheek. Greg cried out in pain. The demon then caught some of Greg's blood with his claw. He tasted it and laughed at Greg's frightened expression.

The demon raised a claw high above Greg's head and was ready to strike down. Greg threw his arms up.

"NOOO!! Please don't hurt me!" Greg sobbed in his sleep.

"Greg, wake up." His mother called. She nervously watched the lines on the heart monitor fluctuate as Greg's stress level increased. "Wake up, honey." She brushed his cheek.

All the muscles in his body tensed. Feeling the painful cramp in his side released him from the dream. His eyes shot open. A tear hung on the corner of each eye. His chest was throbbing and breathing labored.

"Greg, it's ok. You had a nightmare." Ingrid said. She touched his cheek and stroked his hair affectionately.

"Mom." Greg cried in relief. The two tears escaped and slid into his ears. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was. He wondered if this was a dream as well. But the pain made it clear that he was very much awake.

"Shhh." She lulled. "It was just a bad dream."

"Mom." Greg repeated weakly. A small cold shiver went down his spine as he shook off the remnants of the nightmare.

"You're going to be fine." Ingrid said with a wry smile.

"I'm sorry." Greg said. His voice was raspy and small. He couldn't think of anything else to say except apologize.

"I know."

"Are you mad at me?" Greg asked.

"No." Ingrid sighed. "Just really worried."

"See, I told you." A male voice came from the other side of his bed. Greg turned his head.

"Grissom?" Greg said. He hadn't expected to see Grissom.

"He's been here a long time." Ingrid said to her son. "Your friends also came to see you. They left a while ago."

"Feeling better?" Grissom asked Greg.

"A little." Greg lied. If anything, he felt worse. The pain was always there – whether he was asleep or awake. Something about the drugs made things more tolerable. A hint of nausea was forming in the pit of his stomach.

"One day at a time." Grissom said gingerly.

Greg loved his mother dearly and had extreme respect for his boss but somehow, it was just weird having the both of them in the same room. There was a sense of awkwardness in trying to figure out the correct thing to say without feeling embarrassed. Aside from feeling like crap, he really wasn't up for a conversation anyway.

"We got him, Greg." Grissom said after a pause. He felt he needed to say that at the very least.

The corners of Greg's lips turned up in an effort to smile.

"No one's going to hurt you anymore." Ingrid said as she continued to stroke Greg's hair. "You'll be alright." Tears filled her eyes.

"Don't cry, mom." Greg's feeble voice begged.

Lost in a sea of raw emotion, Ingrid's uncontrollable tears came down her rosy cheeks in full streams. She tried to wipe them off as quickly as they fell. The wad of tissues in her hand was already soggy. Grissom dug in his pocket and fished out a handkerchief. He handed it over to her.

"Thank you." Ingrid blushed and accepted the handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes.

(Ok, what just happened here? Why are they being so nice to each other? The last time I landed myself in the hospital, mom had a fit. She could've torn Grissom's head off. Did mom just blush? Is there something they're not telling me? Besides, who the hell still carries a handkerchief around these days?) Greg thought.

His head swam as he tried to stay focused on his train of thought. He breathed a little heavier.

"Are you in pain?" His mother asked.

"Yes." Greg whimpered. He closed his eyes tight.

A dose of painkillers sent Greg off into another round of drug induced sleep. Access into the world of dreams was right around the corner. It surrounded him with darkness, hostility, and evil. He was afraid of the images that sleep brought. But ironically, sleep was the only way of reducing the pain.

The nightmares were just the beginning.

End of Chapter 5

Author's Note: Thanks for reading!!


	6. That's What Friends Are For

Author's Note: I know there has been a big gap between postings of this chapter and my last chapter. I hope you still remember what my fic was about. Haha. If not, you can always go back to the previous chapters and refresh your memory. I apologize for the long wait! Please review!! Thanks! :)

Chapter 6: That's What Friends Are For

"So, the butler did it." Greg summarized wittily in an inquisitive but weak tone. He was sitting in an upright position in his adjustable hospital bed. The change was supposed to help with his circulation.

"Actually, he was a senior staff administrator." Grissom said thoughtfully as he summed up the events of the case.

"No, that's just a nice way of saying 'butler'." Greg joked. His words were slow and choppy. As a result from the collapsed lung, breathing was still a challenge. The pain in his chest bothered him.

"Well, if you want to call it that." Grissom replied.

"So, what's with the hundred dollar bill in the vic's mouth?" Greg inquired. "Seems very cliché."

"Marcus was probably trying to make a statement – being that money was all the vic cared about." Grissom answered.

Greg reached for a tall plastic cup of water on the rolling table. His trembling hands nearly knocked it over but he managed to secure his grasp on the cup. A sudden sharp pain in the shoulder and back made him jump. He tried to mask his flaws and hoped Grissom didn't notice. But seeing Greg's face occasionally turn white kind of gave it way that he was dealing with a lot of pain. Grissom saw it all.

"I can't believe Marcus didn't do a better job of hiding the murder weapon. I mean, in his closet? Come on - that's gotta be the first place everyone looks." Greg said after a few slow gulps of ice water via a striped flexi straw.

"It was a good thing he hid it there. Otherwise we wouldn't have closed the case this quick." Grissom said. His eyes were on Greg's hands.

"Time is of the essence, huh?" Greg said.

Roughly two weeks had passed since Greg's horrible shooting. His health showed good signs of improvement and was eventually taken out of intensive care. As slow as it may seem, he was inching towards recovery. His complexion was still on the pale side but at least some color had returned to his cheeks. The stubborn soreness in his chest continued to cause great discomfort with an occasional shortness of breath. Movement came slightly easier but nonetheless, still quite limited.

On a bright note, he was placed in a nice room with a window for the duration of his recovery. The view from the window was nothing to write home about. He was only able to see the bricks of the adjacent building and witness a few pigeons landing on his window sill. It wasn't much, but he was glad to have some sort of contact with the outside world.

He received several bouquets of flowers and a slew of get-well cards from his friends back at the lab. Seeing all of it lined up on the table brought tears to his eyes. He never knew he had so many friends.

Ingrid extended her stay in Las Vegas to care for her son – well, just enough to nurse him back to health. She wanted to hog Greg all to herself but she knew he needed his space and independence. She respected Greg's need for privacy and often left the room when he had visitors.

Greg liked her company. For some reason, he didn't mind all the fussing. He thought it was rather nice since he only saw his mother a few times out of the year. Besides, his stomach had been craving a home cooked meal for the longest time. Whenever his mom was in town, he knew she would cook up a storm and stock-up his freezer with meals enough to last several weeks.

Grissom came to visit Greg everyday at exactly 9:30 am. It was only most recently that Greg started being awake at that time. He was sleeping so much during the first week of post-surgery that it was nearly impossible to catch him at a waking moment. As Greg got better and slept less, he looked forward to visitors. He liked listening to Grissom talk about the cases.

"What some people would do out of love, others do out of greed." Greg said. He took another several gulps of water.

"Love and greed are two very powerful things." Grissom replied while carefully watching Greg guzzle water in haste.

"Well, Joanne Emerson may be strike-it rich but she doesn't seem to have much left. Her lover's dead. Both Marcus and her son have been taken away from her. How could someone be so wealthy yet poor at the same time?" Greg said comically with a few pauses here and there for air.

"Ah, the lessons that we learn from others' demise are so valuable." Grissom smiled.

"All it took was one mistake and her whole life crumbled around her." Greg took another drink.

"The domino effect." Grissom said. "You know Greg, your hands are shaking." He changed the subject.

"It's no big deal." Greg said sheepishly as he slurped the rest of the water with the straw like nothing was wrong. "Just the jitters."

Greg made great efforts to throw Grissom off on his problems. But Grissom was a smart and sharp-eyed man. He saw right through Greg's attempts to shrug off his condition like some minor scrape. Greg's complete avoidance of certain subjects made it clear to Grissom that Greg was not ready to talk. The trauma was not something anyone could just kick over in a day or two. Greg's mind was still in shock. He was not ready to rehash the past just yet.

Grissom gave him a worried look.

"In about a week or so, I'll be back to work and everything will be back to normal." Greg insisted. "After what happened, it's just really hard to stop shaking." He admitted.

"You won't return to work in a week. I don't think you know the seriousness of your condition." Grissom said. "You were shot. By the luck of the draw, the bullet just missed your heart by that much." He put his thumb and index finger together to represent an inch apart. "Greg, you almost died."

Greg couldn't think of a smart reply. There was a pause in conversation as he stared at the straw in the empty cup he was holding.

"I didn't want to let you down." Greg confessed in a guilty mumble.

"Oh but you never have." Grissom replied. He was a bit surprised at Greg's remark. Why on earth would he say such a thing? Greg had made his share of mistakes in the past – nobody was perfect. But Grissom couldn't remember a single instance when Greg ever let him down. In fact, he could always count on Greg for anything.

Grissom wanted to tell Greg so much - how much he meant to his team, how much he cared, how scared he was at the thought of losing him. But he didn't know where to begin. Grissom was a fair person and often showed it in his actions rather than in the words he chose.

Feeling slightly lethargic and achy all over, Greg leaned his head back on the pillow. The drugs had all sorts of side effects on him. They made him tired, sleepy, edgy, shaky, nauseous, and apprehensive, among other things. He dismissed the warmth spreading throughout his body. The warmer he felt, the more water he craved. Swallowing ice water seemed to temporarily alleviate the discomfort.

"Can I have some more water?" Greg asked and nodded over to a plastic pitcher on the table.

Grissom gave Greg a refill on the water. Greg reached out for it with wobbly hands. The tremors were uncontrollable and only added to his vulnerable appearance. His hands clumsily clasped around the cup and brushed against Grissom's hand in doing so.

"You feel alright? Your hands seem warm." Grissom observed. His worried eyes stared at Greg.

"I'm fine." He answered as he put his feverish lips on the straw. The cold water was refreshing and cooled his body. He sighed in relief.

"Greg, you're burning up." Grissom said after touching Greg's forehead with the back of his fingers.

"No, I'm not." Greg defended.

"Yes, you are." Grissom challenged authoritatively. "Why didn't you say something?" The hand buzzer used to summon the nurse was the size of a MagLite. Grissom picked it up and was about to press the button when Greg interrupted.

"Please don't do that." Greg pleaded. "The only thing that'll do is the nurse'll come in and pump me full of drugs, which will then put me out for several hours. I'm tired of sleeping. The dreams freak me out." That last sentence just slipped. He didn't mean to say it out loud.

"Dreams? You mean nightmares." Grissom said. "Are they bad?"

"Not really. Just stupid stuff." Greg lied. Grissom didn't believe him.

"Is it the same dream over and over again?" Grissom questioned.

Greg shrugged, afraid to show his weakness.

"Do want to tell me about it?" Grissom pressed further. Greg looked away nervously not giving Grissom an answer.

Grissom saw the fear hidden behind the pride in Greg's eyes. He felt great sympathy for Greg. The physical wound always healed faster than the mental wound. Greg would be psychologically scarred for life. There was no telling if Greg would ever be the same after this ordeal. The struggle had only just begun.

"Greg, no one's going to hurt you anymore." Grissom reassured.

Greg stared at a few bubbles forming on the surface of the water in his cup. He avoided eye contact because he was afraid Grissom might see the truth in his eyes.

"You're going to get through this." Grissom said optimistically.

"Next thing you know, you're gonna make me see a shrink cause you think I'm going crazy." Greg said with a nervous laugh. Great, just what he needed – put ideas into Grissom's head. The fever was really starting to affect his brain.

"Let's not jump ahead of ourselves." Grissom replied frankly.

"I don't need a shrink. I'm fine." Greg said in defense. He took another drink of water. The coldness felt good going down his parched throat.

"If you need to talk, you can come to me. The door is always open." Grissom said.

"Thanks." Greg said sincerely. Seeing that Grissom's offer was genuine and not done out of obligation, Greg got a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. Perhaps the sensation was brought on by the fever. But nonetheless, he felt valued.

"But for now," Grissom pressed the button to summon the nurse.

"I don't see why that was necessary." Greg said. "The water cools me down just fine."

"Greg, I know you'll hate me for it, but you're sick. The drugs will help." Grissom gave him a crooked smile. "I'm doing it for your own good."

"I won't be much of a conversationalist afterwards though. Consider yourself warned." Greg joked. He pushed the thermal blanket to the side of the bed.

"That's ok. As long as you feel better – it's all that matters." Grissom said.

Soon after, a curly haired nurse named Rose entered the room. She was dressed in a powder blue uniform. Greg was pelted with several questions. She felt his forehead and checked his blood pressure. Then she left the room only to return a short time later with a syringe and a small vile in her hand. She drew the fluid out of the vile with the syringe. As she flicked the tip of the needle with her thumb and middle finger, a small squirt of clear liquid spewed out from the tip. She injected the dosage into Greg's IV.

After fluffing and reorganizing Greg's pillows to better support his back, she reminded Greg that he ought to take care because a collapsed lung is very serious. Rose had a soft spot for Greg ever since she learned of his situation. Therefore, she took exceptional care of her patient. She felt sorry for him being that he was an innocent victim of a violent crime and all that.

Rose adjusted the blinds so that just the right amount of sunlight came into the room. She exchanged a few pleasantries with Grissom, and then left them alone.

The drowsiness swept Greg under. It was swift and came without warning. Greg dozed off as Grissom was telling him the latest news from the lab. Grissom found it rather humorous in seeing Greg fast asleep at the mere tone of his voice, but he took no deep offense. In fact, he couldn't help but smile.

He fixed Greg's blanket. Grissom wasn't known to do this sort of thing. He was safe from any humiliation because there was no one in the room to witness it. He took a hard look at Greg and touched his arm affectionately.

Grissom left the hospital feeling a medley of emotions.

* * *

Later That Day:

"Hey, hey little bro." Nick greeted as he and Warrick barged into Greg's room unannounced. "We thought you could use a little company."

Greg had just finished taking another nap. He felt groggy and sore but nonetheless, he was very happy to see his friends.

"We had some time before our shift and we wanted to see how you were doing." Warrick said.

"Yea, and we come bearing gifts." Nick said while pulling out a discman and a couple of CDs that he hid behind his back. "We couldn't find your iPod – man, your locker is a mess – you seriously need to clean it out. I think there's some sort of new species of rodent breeding in there."

"Will you stop?" Warrick said to Nick humorously. "It's a little cluttered is all." He smiled at Greg.

"We brought you some CDs to pass the time." Nick ignored Warrick. He placed the discman on the rolling table. "We know you like loud music. So, we got you a variety of metal and punk – you know, I don't get it. The name of this group is called Satan's Bitches. But it's all guys on the cover." He flipped over one of the CDs to show Greg. "Shouldn't it be called Satan's Sons of Bitches instead?"

"Don't. Hurts when I laugh." Greg said after a few painful coughs.

"Leave it to Nick to be politically correct." Warrick said.

"Anyway, enjoy." Nick placed the stack of CDs on the table next to the discman.

"Thanks guys." Greg said. If it wasn't for the slight tinge of color in his cheeks, his complexion would've been completely white.

"Nice view." Warrick said sarcastically as he moved over to the window and lifted the blinds.

"Not really. You see a wall." Greg said. "Better than no window, I guess."

"So, what do they feed you here?" Nick said while grabbing a chair and pulling it over to the bed.

"Lots of soupy, slushy foods – but they put me on the IV most of the time. Solids have a hard time staying down." Greg said freely. After all, Nick and Warrick were like his brothers.

"Oh." Nick frowned. He didn't like the idea of his friend dependent upon an IV.

"What I wouldn't do for an enchilada about now." Greg made an attempt to lighten the situation.

"Soon enough." Warrick said as he made his way back to the bed.

"Probably not a good idea anyway. I'd probably puke it right out." Greg said.

"Greg, we've been meaning to say this for a while," Warrick said after a pause. "We should've been looking out for you back there."

"Nah, it's ok. Don't worry about it." Greg waved off.

"We owe you an apology." Warrick said.

"You sound like Grissom." Greg accused as he shifted his position and stifled a grunt. "It's not your fault."

"You're only level I," Nick began.

"Come on guys - don't pull seniority on me." Greg interrupted. "This whole thing was no one's fault but mine. I wandered off and walked right into an ambush. Who would've known? It's _my_ fault."

"We share in your pain." Warrick said. "If there's anything you want, just name it."

"Thanks, but I'll be alright." Greg said.

"Listen," Nick said like as if he had a great idea. "I know a guy down in Amargosa and he runs an ATV rental. He owes me a favor or two and I'm thinkin' it's time to collect. How would you like to kick up some dust on an ATV big dune adventure? It'll be the three of us versus the desert. What do you say?"

Greg's eyes lit up for a split second. It wasn't everyday that he got an invitation to play with the big boys. But his expression changed in an instant.

"Sounds great but it's going to be a while." Greg looked depressed. Being reminded of his current situation put a damper on things.

"Well, the offer stands open indefinitely." Nick said.

Nick gave Greg a reason for not giving up. Underneath the tough guy façade, Nick was genuine when it came to friendship. He would've taken a bullet for Greg without a moment's hesitation. And because of the fact that he failed to be there when Greg needed him the most, he felt tremendous guilt.

"See, it gives you an extra incentive to get well quicker." Warrick said to Greg. "There are still a lot of good times ahead of us."

Perhaps it was in the tender tone of Warrick's voice or the way Nick treated him like one of the guys, Greg became misty eyed with appreciation. He wouldn't admit it, but camaraderie was important to Greg – almost as much as getting the job done. All through his life, he'd been the odd man out – the one on the outside looking in. Being accepted into a circle was like belonging somewhere. In front of others, he seemed to take things lightly and appear to be unscathed. His constant joking and comedy always covered his hurt. For the first time in his life, he fit in or at least he was starting to fit in.

"What's the matter?" Nick asked Greg.

"Nothing." Greg muttered. "Just touched." His voice cracked. He swallowed the ever growing lump in his throat.

"Is that so unnatural? We really do care about you, Greg. We don't say it as often as we should and it may seem like we always pick on you." Warrick said. He turned a grin. "But it's only for the best. I mean, we wouldn't want to spoil you, now would we?"

The remark didn't spark the humorous reaction that they hoped. Instead, Greg looked at them with glassy eyes brimming with tears.

"Damn, I wasn't supposed to cry." Greg made an attempt to make light of the situation. He brushed off a few tears that escaped down his cheeks with the back of his hands.

The bullet loosened a lot of emotions. The change in Greg became more and more evident each day. Shaky and frayed, Greg was very much the opposite of what everyone was used to. The tears formed frequently and most easily. Nick and Warrick worried deeply about Greg's psychological well-being. The post-trauma took a lot away from Greg both mentally and physically. The scars on his skin and in his mind were permanent souvenirs of the dreadful experience. Nick and Warrick promised to do all they could to protect Greg and be there for him.

"We're sorry that this happened to you." Warrick said with remorse.

"It's a horrible feeling." Greg sniffled. "You know, getting shot, I mean. It's different than what you see at the movies and on TV."

"Yea, it hurts a lot more in real life." Nick said only to get nudged in the ribs by Warrick.

A few more tears rolled down Greg's face. It wasn't something that he could've controlled. "I'm sorry. I can't help it." He finally said in defeat.

"It's ok, Greg." Nick reassured.

"Hope you don't think I'm a wimp." Greg joked lightly.

"Greg, you've been through hell. Do you think we couldn't excuse a few tears here and there? You have every right to feel the way you do." Warrick said.

"Yea well, just know that we're here if you need anything." Nick chimed in.

"With all this stuff going on, I never did get the chance to properly thank you guys for what you did. You saved my life." Greg said.

"Really, there's no need for that." Nick said modestly.

"The credit is not for us to claim. It had a lot to do with your perseverance to hang on." Warrick said.

"When I was lying there alone for that brief moment before you guys came, all I could think of was how scared I was of dying. I thought I was going to die. The pain was so intense. I wanted to let go. I figured it was easier to just give up."

"It's a good thing you didn't." Warrick said.

"Yea, something must've made you hang on." Nick said.

"It was actually hearing the sound of your footsteps." Greg said. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I figured everything was going to be alright once my friends came."

Nick and Warrick stood there not knowing how to respond. Greg's little confession caught them off guard.

"I'm sorry you had to get your hands dirty." Greg said to Nick.

"Stop apologizing." Nick said. "Dirty hands were the least of my problems. I did what I had to. I couldn't let you bleed to death."

"Thanks." Greg replied.

"From now on, just don't go off following breadcrumb trails without telling one of us first. Ok?" Warrick requested.

"I will." Greg answered.

"And don't you dare scare us like that ever again. If you do, I'm gonna personally kick your butt." Nick threatened comically.

This was followed by a pause in conversation. The silence was deafening. Greg wished someone would say something before he started bawling a sea of tears again.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask you." Nick began. He looked sheepishly around the room as if someone might overhear what he was going to say. Lowering his voice dramatically, he began to speak again. "Is your mom seeing anyone?"

"What?" Greg was confused.

"Your mom – is she still single?" Nick rephrased.

"My mom? Why do you need know?" Greg stammered. He grunted as he shifted positions on the bed.

"For a woman in her fifties, she sure keeps in good shape. She doesn't look a day over 35. I think your mother's very attractive." Nick gushed.

"Excuse me, but I think the drugs are starting to take its toll on my hearing. I could've sworn you just said you think my mom's hot?" Greg blurted.

"Well, if you put it that way – yea. She is." Nick said with an ear to ear grin.

"I can't believe what you're saying!" Greg cried. "Don't tell me you're in love with MY MOM!!"

"I can sense the horror in your voice but look at it this way, we're all adults." Nick replied. "I may be out of her league but well, it doesn't change what I think about her. She's got a great smile – among other things." He added dreamily.

"But she's my mom!!" Greg exclaimed in disbelief. "Oh, gross!" He looked at Warrick for support.

"Hey, don't look at me, man. The truth of the matter is that your mom does make heads turn." Warrick laughed.

"Not you too." Greg groaned. "This is great. You guys just put images in my head that shouldn't be there. I'm gonna need therapy after this."

Apparently both Nick and Warrick thought this was very amusing.

"Don't worry Greg, we won't do anything you wouldn't do." Nick said humorously.

"That's just what I'm afraid of." Greg rolled his eyes. "Stay away from my mom." He said sternly.

"Thanks for the advice but it's not for you to say." Nick said. He liked toying with Greg. There was something very comical about it.

"Nick, you better get in line. I think Grissom's ahead of you. Have you seen the way he looks at her?" Warrick said.

Greg remained silent at that remark. He knew Nick and Warrick were only pulling his leg with all this infatuated talk about his mother. They wouldn't really hit on her. Greg knew that. But for some insane reason, he did sense there was indeed some sort of "thing" going on between his mother and Grissom. Perhaps it was his imagination or a subconscious desire. Whatever it was, he couldn't figure it out. And his brain was just too tired to go at it further.

"Grissom's already got Sara. So, Ingrid is fair game." Nick said.

"Ahem! I'm still in the room." Greg interrupted. "My mom's off limits. Do you hear me?"

"Nope." Nick teased.

"Guys." Greg pleaded.

"Oh, will you look at the time." Nick joked. He pretended to ignore Greg and looked at his wristwatch. "We better head over to the crime lab. Our shift starts soon."

"Relax. You know we're only playing with you, Greg." Warrick finally said. "Look, we gotta go."

"We'll come by and check on you tomorrow. We'll bring Catherine." Nick changed the subject.

"Stay away from my mom." Greg warned as they turned to leave.

"Bye Greggo." Nick said, while ignoring Greg's comment.

"See ya. Be good." Warrick said as he reached for the doorknob.

"Stay away from my mom!" Greg raised his voice. But he only got a sympathetic look from Warrick and a mischievous grin from Nick.

"We will." Nick said with a wink.

"Hey!! What's that supposed to mean? Hey!!" Greg said as he watched the door close behind them.

He laid his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. A smile crept upon his lips. At the end of the day, they were good people and he often liked to play along with their jokes. Greg didn't care if he was the punch line sometimes - just as long as he was part of the group. Brotherly love warmed his heart.

Greg looked at the clock tacked to the wall. It was only 5:30 pm. He figured there was time for a quick nap before they start bringing dinner around.

He closed his eyes. Just before he allowed himself to doze off into the world of unconsciousness, he prayed the demons in grey hooded sweatshirts would keep their distance.

End of Chapter 6


	7. Humble Release

Chapter 7: Humble Release

Greg was awakened by a cold sweat and the fragrant smell of mutton stew. A clammy film of perspiration had collected on his skin as a result of another one of those nightmares he'd been getting on a regular basis. His cotton t-shirt had absorbed the moisture away from his body leaving damp sweat stains on his chest and back. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up slowly while taking care of the soreness in his old wound. Still shivering from the aftermath of the nightmare, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the palms of his shaky hands.

His bedroom was dark and the waning daylight outside his windows suggested it was close to evening. The rapture of hunger hit as he inhaled the aroma of warm spices that seeped through the cracks of his closed door. Pangs of hunger mixed with the need for pain killers gave him the will to get out of bed. He grunted as he stood up, feeling a little uneasy of whether or not he could even make it to the door.

Greg shuffled across the dark bedroom, hoping not to snub his toes over any books he'd left lying around on the floor. A flash of bright light greeted him as he pulled the door open. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the blinding light in the hall. He successfully made his way to the bathroom two doors down.

The splashes of cold water felt good on his face. It was rather refreshing after a grueling bout with a nightmare. He stared at his reflection from the mirror directly above the sink and watched the beads of water glide down his face. His hollow and semi-pale cheeks gave the impression that he'd been sick recently. He turned off the squeaky faucet and wiped his face with a towel.

Greg tried to tame the hair on the back of his head from sticking up, but was useless and eventually gave up out of frustration. He was in too much pain to really give a damn about the way he looked.

Dressed in sweat pants and an old screen t-shirt, he made his way into the kitchen. The mixture of different delicious smells entered his nose as he came closer to the origin. He found his mother at the stove carefully stirring the contents of a pot simmering in low heat. She was softly humming the melody of a Norwegian folk song.

"Smells great, mom." Greg said from across the room.

"Oh, you're up." Ingrid replied. "Did I wake you? Hope I wasn't too noisy." She took the sauce covered wooden spoon out and placed the lid back on the pot.

"No, it was my human alarm clock that woke me." Greg said as he pointed to his temple with his index finger. He walked over to where his mother was standing.

"I thought I'd let you sleep a little while longer." She went to the sink and washed her hands.

"I've been asleep all day. I even missed lunch." He said.

"You must be hungry." Ingrid dried her hands on her apron skirt.

"What are you cooking? Is it what I think it is?" He lifted the lid of the big pot on the stove. "Mutton stew! I knew it. I recognize that smell anywhere. It's my favorite!" He confirmed while taking in the vapors that rose out of the pot.

"I know it's your favorite." Ingrid said with a laugh. "Tonight, we're having cod and barley soup, mutton stew with steamed rice, fish au gratin, potetboller, and a ground beef and mushroom pasta casserole. And for dessert – I made a fyrstekake – Mama Olaf's recipe."

"Sounds delicious. But that's a lot of food for just the two of us." Greg said.

"That's because it's not. You'd better go wash up. Your friends will be here soon." Ingrid said.

"Friends?" Greg questioned.

"I invited all of them over for dinner tonight – Gil, Warrick and Nick. Only Catherine can't make it. She's attending her daughter's school dance show this evening. She really wanted to come. But then again, this was a spur of the moment sort of thing."

Greg looked surprised.

"It's just going to be a nice little get together. I thought it would be fun and it's been a while since I hosted a dinner party. You know how much I love to do that." She marveled. "Oh, I hope you don't mind that I invited everyone without telling you. I know I should've asked you first but I saw how attached they all were to you when you were in the hospital. They seemed like such close friends." She said with sudden skepticism.

"No, not at all. It's just odd that they would sacrifice a Saturday to come here."

(Did she call Grissom "Gil"? Since when were they on a first name basis? Grissom was Grissom. Virtually no one calls Grissom by his first name.) Greg thought while hanging on her words suspiciously.

"Besides, they could all use a home cooked meal." Ingrid said. "Bachelors don't get enough home cooked meals."

"Don't get me wrong, I love your food, mom. I swear I'll lick the plate clean. But are you sure they'd go for the Norwegian stuff? I mean, it might be – I dunno – too exotic." Greg said.

"That's why I made the ground beef and mushroom pasta casserole – if all else fails, they could eat that." Ingrid managed to keep a straight face but she quickly turned into a grin and said, "Don't be silly. They're going to love this little introduction to Norwegian food. Seriously baby, have you ever known anyone who didn't like my mutton stew and fish au gratin?"

"Well, come to think of it, no." Greg answered. "No one's mutton stew can compare to yours."

"Ok then." Ingrid laughed. "I'll make sure you get a second helping."

"Or third." Greg said. His mother stared at him.

"Look at you." Ingrid cupped her hands around her son's cheeks. "You've gotten so thin."

"Oh mom." Greg sighed. "Why do moms always say stuff like that? I'm ok."

Ingrid threw her arms around Greg's neck and pulled him into an unexpected hug. She didn't say anything - only kissed him on the side of the head. Somehow, Greg didn't need an explanation. He felt it in the hug and understood everything. He clasped his arms around his mother's waist and returned the hug.

"I love you, mom." Greg muttered.

"No baby, I love you more." Ingrid said. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Greg recoiled painfully when his mother gave him a tender squeeze.

"I'm sorry." Ingrid gasped and let go of her son. "I forgot you were still in pain. Are you ok? It's time for your medication."

Greg cringed uncomfortably and rubbed his chest. He poured some water into a mug. The small orange plastic container of prescription painkillers were right where he'd left them – on the kitchen counter next to a small coin dish that held his keys, wallet, cell phone, and some loose change.

"You can't take those on an empty stomach." Ingrid interrupted as Greg reached for the container. "Here, eat something first." She removed the tin foil from a pan.

"You had time to make cookies too?" Greg said in disbelief as he looked at the perfectly round golden discs in the pan.

"Ginger cookies." Ingrid said proudly. "It's for after dessert – to go with coffee."

"Wow, you're truly amazing." Greg said delightfully while taking a seat on a stool.

"Really, they are not that hard to make." Ingrid said modestly.

Ingrid placed a few cookies onto a plate and set it down on the counter in front of Greg. Without a moment's hesitation, he devoured two cookies on the spot. The texture of the cookie was soft and flavorful. He'd forgotten how great food tasted. Overwhelmed with hunger, he nearly bit his finger when he took a bite out of the cookies. He then washed a pill down with a long gulp of water.

Greg decided to take his mother's advice and go wash up before the guests started arriving. He stepped into the shower and turned the water on. Steam from the hot water quickly filled up the room and fogged up the mirror. He felt relaxed as the water massaged his back.

Upon getting out of the shower, he dried his hair and wrapped a towel around his waist. He went to his room to get a fresh change of clothes. As he flipped on the light switch, he unavoidably caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. For a few seconds, he stood in front of the mirror staring at his bony torso.

The scar was a circular pink blotch about the size of a quarter. He traced the scar with his index finger. The skin around the disfiguring blemish had already healed but the scar itself would take a considerable amount of time to fade. The other smaller scars on his body left from tube insertions were not as gruesome.

Not particularly proud of bearing this constant reminder of being shot, Greg quickly pulled a t-shirt over his torso. He then rummaged through his dresser drawer and found a pair of jeans.

Things were so easy to find ever since his mother came to town. While he was in the hospital, Ingrid passed the time by tidying up Greg's apartment. She organized, dusted, did laundry, and cleaned. The work was therapeutic and kept her mind off her son for a while. Greg was rather surprised to find his place looking orderly. It was like stepping into someone else's home.

"Oh crap." Greg said out loud after zipping up his jeans. The waistband fell loose on his frame. At that point, it was pretty obvious that his mom was right. He had indeed lost weight. He opened his closet and found a belt to remedy the loose pant.

When he returned to the kitchen, he was received by a whole new and different smell. It was potatoes being deep fried in oil. Greg's appetite was renewed once again. Ingrid was finishing up on the potetboller. The smell of potato paste rolled in spices and deep fried gave off a very strong yet fragrant aroma. He spotted the dish with the cooked potato balls immediately. The golden brown orbs were piled up to resemble some sort of edible pyramid. Like a child, he stared at the plate in search of crumbs. His mother shooed him away and warned him not to touch it.

Greg made an attempt to be useful by going over to the cabinet and take out the dinnerware. Things were going fine until he raised his arm to reach for the plates on a high shelf in the cabinet. A sharp bolt of pain shot through his upper body. He cried out and staggered a few steps back. It looked like he was going to fall over backwards but the counter stopped him from doing so.

"What's wrong?" His mother fretted upon hearing the yell. She hurried over.

"I was trying to set the table." Greg replied wearily. With his back against the counter, he wrapped an arm around his ribs.

"Greg, you were only released from the hospital yesterday. You can't be doing this. You have to take it easy. Didn't you hear what the doctor said?" Ingrid said in concern. She placed a hand on her son's shoulder.

"Just wanted to help out." Greg said with a grimace.

"You're really sweet but I can't allow you do anything that would get in the way of your recovery. I'll set the table. You go sit down." She instructed.

Greg obeyed and took a seat on the sofa in the living room. He gently kneaded his chest as he waited for the soreness and muscle strain to subside. His mother kept a watchful eye at his direction as she finished up her cooking. Knowing that the bullet only came within inches of his heart caused her great uneasiness. She constantly worried about complications.

Eventually, the guests started arriving. Greg remained seated due to the stubborn pain in his chest. Grissom was the first to arrive. He brought two bottles of fine wine to go with the meal. It was typical of Grissom to be punctual and generous.

Grissom was especially pleased to see Greg. When asked how he faired, Greg snickered and replied sarcastically, "Haven't felt this good in years." But Grissom was not completely convinced. Perhaps he sensed it in Greg's lethargic drawl, or the stiff way Greg sat on the sofa. Grissom was quite the observer and had a way of paying attention to human behavior. Nothing could get passed him.

Nick was the next to arrive. Nick, not having a clue on what to bring, came bearing a lovely bouquet of flowers for Ingrid. Greg thought it amusing how hard Nick was trying to impress someone who had absolutely no romantic feelings for him. Ingrid raved about how beautiful the flowers were and took them with her into the kitchen to look for a vase.

While Grissom and Ingrid had good natured conversations in the kitchen, Nick and Greg engulfed themselves in an intense game of Wii bowling. Warrick came about thirty minutes later. Finding a parking space at the complex was the reason for his tardiness. He brought a fruit basket for Ingrid.

The guys welcomed him into their game. Warrick said Wii bowling may be a little too hard core for him. He needed something less sadistic and they laughed. But Nick and Warrick understood the reasoning behind the game selection. It was Nick who insisted on skipping the violent games. Greg wasn't ready to be re-exposed to that yet.

Dinner at Greg's apartment commenced at 7 pm. The wine was poured and the foods were all laid out on the dining room table. Grissom called for a toast before the meal and everyone raised their glass. Ingrid spent a good part of the time explaining what ingredients she used in her Norwegian dishes. The Norwegian food was a hit and hardly anyone felt the need to turn to the pasta casserole. The star dish of the night was, of course, the mutton stew. It was so good that everyone had multiple helpings. Ingrid knew to make lots of extra. Somehow, she predicted that it would be a favorable dish.

The conversations around the table were plenty. There were no awkward pauses among friends. It was a pretty open atmosphere. However, no one made any comments about Greg's occasional shakiness. He'd been that way ever since the incident.

They gathered in the living room for after dinner coffee and ginger cookies. The sounds from the television created background noise, which no one really paid much attention to. Ingrid found a peculiar fascination with entomology and Grissom was more than willing to elaborate. And Grissom absorbed Ingrid's stories about her life in Norway. Nick and Warrick filled Greg in on the latest Hodges news around the lab. They joked that Hodges was so desperate with his brown-nosing that he was almost ready to shine Grissom's shoes and pick up his dry cleaning.

"So Grissom, when can I come back to work?" Greg asked casually. He had been waiting all night for the opportunity to ask Grissom this question. Catching Grissom alone was rare. Greg's mother was in the kitchen busy packing away some of the leftovers for Nick and Warrick to take home. Nick and Warrick were playing darts.

"Greg, you need time to recover." Grissom took a sip of his coffee.

"What I really need, is to get back to the swing of things." Greg said.

"It's too soon." Grissom replied.

"I've been out for over a month already." Greg said with a guilty tone. "I'm sure everyone's grown tired of covering for me."

"As much as we need you, no one has complained about the work load." Grissom replied. "I'm sure if they were swamped, they'd tell me."

"It's not like them to complain about anything anyway. I can't help being anxious to go back to work."

"It doesn't change the fact that you've been shot." Grissom reminded calmly.

"Look at Brass. He took a bullet and went back to work in just two weeks." Greg said.

"Yea, but that was Brass. Different person. Different situation." Grissom had a habit of making short sentences.

"You're worried that the bullet knocked a few screws loose." Greg pointed to his head. "But I'm ok. Really."

"I know you're eager to get back to work." Grissom set the cup and saucer down on the coffee table. "Let's see how you are in a few days. No promises."

"Fair enough, I guess." He was a little disappointed but took whatever he could get.

There was really no sense in arguing with Grissom. If he was adamant about not having Greg go back to work, there was a pretty darn good reason behind it. He did not feel Greg was mentally or physically capable of re-entering the workforce just yet.

Greg's staggering health was reiterated by an occasional dry cough. This was due to an irritation stemming from the collapsed lung. Greg dismissed it and saw it nothing more than a scratchy throat. He was asked several times by Nick and Warrick if he was alright and he answered affirmatively. Their persistence was also as a result of watching Greg absentmindedly rub his chest a couple times as the game of darts progressed. The poor kid looked uncomfortable but he insisted that he was fine.

Greg was having too much fun to let a little annoying cough get in the way, especially since he was on a winning streak against the guys. Pretending to be sore losers, Nick and Warrick swore that Greg was cheating, but then again how does one cheat at darts?

From the living room, Ingrid could see how cheerful her son was when he was with his friends. This made her particularly satisfied and happy. There were never any dull subjects or lags in her conversations with Grissom. She never expected Grissom to be so intriguing and easy to talk to. Moreover, she wondered how there could be a brief moment in time where she despised him for not watching out for Greg. She had to admit that Grissom was somewhat old-school, but his gentleman grandeur made her feel special.

As much as Greg enjoyed the company, it was a tiring effort to keep up with everyone else. He tried to be as hospitable as possible but his energy was just not all there. Perhaps it was the medication or the fact that his body was still healing. Either way, he hoped his friends didn't take it personal when he fell silent a few times. When the company finally left, he retired to his room.

About an hour later, he was under the covers in bed with a beat up old copy of last year's American Journal of Numismatics on his lap. His fascination for the study of coins and money always took a front seat. He was always reading up on it. The small book lamp that hung above his bed shined a beam of light onto the page he was reading. A small knock on the door interrupted his train of thought. It was his mother holding a glass of water in her hand.

"You shouldn't be reading in the dark. You're going to damage your eyes." Greg's mother scolded softly.

"It's not dark, the book lamp works fine." He replied.

Ingrid made her way over to the bed and took a seat on the edge. She peered over at the book her son was reading. "How typical of you." She joked in a non-surprised tone.

"What? This is a good read." Greg insisted. His geeky side must really be doing him wonders. "When I was about seven, Papa Olaf gave me an 1849 Spanish doubloon that he somehow acquired during his travels to Spain. He told me to keep it in a safe place because it was very rare. And I was in my pirate phase at that time. So you can imagine how much excitement my new treasure brought." He laughed. "Something about that gold coin fueled my thirst for knowledge. Thanks to Papa Olaf, I've been hooked ever since."

"So, I guess you're enjoying the year's subscription to The Numismatists that I gave you for your birthday?" She said.

"Are you kidding? Enjoying is an understatement. Seeing the next issue in the mail is like the highlight of the day. I'm always anxious to read it back to back. It's great." He raved.

"I'm glad to hear that – I think." She said with a laugh. "But it's time to put that book down and go to sleep. It's late."

Greg dog-eared the page in the journal and set it on his nightstand.

"Here." Ingrid handed him the glass of water and a small pill. "You forgot to take your medication."

"Oh yea." Greg suddenly remembered. "Thanks." He took the glass of water and the pill.

"You'd forget your head if I didn't remind you." Ingrid said affectionately.

"With all the excitement, I guess it slipped my mind." Greg said. "Your dinner party was a success tonight. I don't think they had such a great meal in years. I've probably gained a few pounds. I can't believe Nick and Warrick took all the leftovers home. They really love your cooking."

"It was fun to have people over." Ingrid said.

"I was disappointed that you didn't leave any leftovers for me." Greg said in jest.

"Don't you worry. Before I go, I will stock your refrigerator up with enough mutton stew to last for a month." She reassured.

"But you're not going back to New York so soon, are you?" Greg said. "I mean, seems like you just got here. And well, I like having you around. I miss you." He stammered.

"I will stay for a while – until you're well enough to take care of yourself again." Ingrid said hesitantly. She took the empty glass from Greg and placed it on the nightstand. "Can I tell you something?" She added.

"Sure, mom. What is it?" Greg answered.

"Well, I've been thinking a lot lately - about selling the pastry shop." Ingrid said with eyes brimming with tears.

"What?! Why??" Greg said in a flabbergasted tone. "Is business bad?"

"No, quite the opposite. Business is doing very well." She said. "But family comes first. After this whole thing with you getting shot - I realized something – you almost died. My baby almost died and I can't have that happen. Parents are not supposed to outlive their children. I thought maybe New York really is too far away. Maybe I should be closer to you."

"But mom, that shop was your dream! It's what you wanted. You can't possibly sell it." Greg gasped. "What's going to happen to Mama Olaf's Fine Norwegian Pastries?"

"I don't care." She bit back tears.

"Mom, I love you and you know that you're more than welcome to stay with me for as long as you like." Greg said sternly. "But I bet you can't look me in the eye and tell me you really don't care about the pastry shop. I mean, the second you mentioned about selling, your eyes welled up with tears. That shop means the world to you. We both know it. I won't let you sell."

"It's my shop. I can do whatever I want to do."

"Not when your decision is irrational." He said. "You're just afraid of not knowing when will be the last time you see me."

Ingrid stared at a grisly Marilyn Manson concert poster taped to the adjacent wall.

"Mom, you're getting a little paranoid. I know this whole thing shook you up – I think it shook everyone up – even Grissom. But I'm fine and will be fine for a long time." Greg said confidently. He smiled at his mother. "Trust me."

She looked like she was going to cry again.

"I know how important the pastry shop is to you. I would never want you to compromise your dream. I know how important dreams are." Greg said. "Look, the distance between us is only a five hour flight. It's not so bad. You can come here anytime you want, plus I'll fly over on every holiday. But you have to keep your shop. Selling is not an option."

"The mother is supposed to comfort the child – not the other way around." She managed a smile. "How did you become so smart?"

"That's easy. I got it from you." He joked. Ingrid giggled softly.

The mood quickly changed to a somber one in a matter of a few seconds as a wave of silence filled the room.

"Can I ask you a question?" Greg said.

"Anything." Ingrid replied.

"I've been meaning to ask you for a while now. But I just couldn't find the right time." Greg said in a troubled tone.

"Well, what is it? Don't hold the suspense." Ingrid advised.

"Does dad know I was in the hospital? Did he know I got shot?" Greg inquired. Somehow he already knew the answer but he just wanted to hear it from his mother.

"Well," Ingrid hesitated.

"Does he know?" Greg pushed.

"I don't know why you need to bring this up." She said in an exasperated tone.

"You don't have to protect me." Greg demanded.

"Does it really matter if he knows? Hasn't he hurt you enough?" Ingrid shot back.

"I just want to know the truth." He pleaded. "He knows, doesn't he?"

Ingrid sighed heavily in defeat before starting again. "I called him sometime after I arrived in Las Vegas. I figured he had a right to know, after all, he is still your father. You were in intensive care and no one knew if you were going to make it. I told him about your situation."

"What did he say? Was he upset?" Greg insisted. He knew he was setting himself up for major disappointment.

"It was a mistake to have called him." She was close to tears.

"What did he say?" He pressed on.

"Please, Greg. Don't." Ingrid hesitated. It was hard for her to lie. She wished she had it in her to just tell a lie. But their bond was so strong, she just couldn't.

"Mom, please."

"I told him he should fly in. He said was sorry that all this happened but he couldn't come." Ingrid avoided her son's eyes. "I asked him why not. He said he had a very important golf tournament with a bunch of political big wigs from DC the next few days and he just couldn't possibly hop on a plane to Vegas." Her voice shook. "I told him again that you were in intensive care and he just brushed the comment aside and said he hoped you would be ok – like as if it was just the common cold or something. Then he said he had to run and hung up."

Falling through the thin ice was nothing compared to drowning in the ice water beneath it. In some stubborn way, Greg always saved a glimmer of hope in his heart that his father would one day come back into his life. He was expecting too much. Even as he lay dying in the hospital, his father refused to set his busy schedule aside and see him. He had to face the realization that his father just plain didn't care whether he lived or died. Afraid to look up, Greg stared at the folds of his blanket.

"Greg." Ingrid said strongly.

Greg didn't answer. He felt the lump in his throat grow bigger and bigger.

"Greg, look at me." Ingrid said roughly. She lifted his chin up with a cupped hand. Her harsh manner softened when she saw Greg's eyes full of tears. "Oh sweetheart, please don't do this to yourself."

"He doesn't care." Greg's chin shook. "He really doesn't care."

"I have no idea why it should matter to you so much. The man hasn't cared about you in twenty five years." Ingrid said, making light of the subject. "Now shouldn't be the time to wonder if he's ever going to change."

Greg looked like he was about to say something but refrained from doing so.

"Did you think things would be different this time?" Ingrid said rhetorically.

"I thought that maybe – just maybe he would care a little. Well, I was hoping." Greg admitted as he brushed a tear away.

"It's too late for that. And you shouldn't wait for him to change his ways because he won't." Ingrid said.

"I should really hate him, huh mom? I should hate him for all the years he let me down." Greg said through clenched teeth and eyes full of hot tears. "But I don't. I don't know why, I don't. If it was anyone else, they would hate him so much." His voice cracked as he held back sobs.

"You have a forgiving soul."

"If I had died, would he have come to my funeral? Or would that be another inconvenience for him?"

"Greg!" Ingrid gasped.

"He wouldn't have cared one way or the other."

"I will not have you talk like that." Ingrid huffed. "Do you know how scared I was when I heard the news? My heart hit the floor. I do not want you talking about death and funerals. A funeral is not some sort of party." She shook her head in dismay.

Greg said nothing.

"You have to stop giving him excuses. I've already given up on him years ago. You should too. There is no hope left for him. I know that more than anyone." Ingrid offered. "It's always been just you and me."

Greg wiped a few more tears. "So, I guess it's official everything then. My father doesn't give a damn about me - not a phone call to see how I was doing, not even a card."

"I know he's caused you a lot of pain and I'm sorry. If there was something I could do to make it all go away, I would." She said. "Greg, you are way too selfless and genuine to let that man ruin your life. We need to forget him."

Greg knew how close he came to dying. His father's heartless disappearing act was again the main cause for lament. There were no inquiries made by his father pertaining to Greg's health nor were there any gestures of concern for a speedy recovery. This capital neglect was the ultimate and final blow to Greg's faith in his father.

"Forget him." Ingrid repeated. "We have each other and that's all that matters." She touched his arm affectionately. "I know your heart's breaking. I can feel it and it makes me sad."

Greg sucked in a quivering breath, wiped away the last few tears and quit crying. Ingrid pulled her son into a sympathetic hug. She could feel the small tremors that racked his body. The doctor said the convulsions were due to the medication and the post-traumatic stress. Dr. Patel also advised that any amount of stress – mental or physical – would not be desirable. This whole event had traumatized Greg deeply and there was no telling what might make him snap. Ingrid vowed to do all she could to keep her son away from the anxiety.

Greg wished he could tell her about the nightmares. But he figured he had to deal with those on his own. He was getting tired of waking up in a heart-pounding cold sweat in the middle of the night and being scared out of his wits.

"Are you ok now?" Ingrid asked. "The shakes – do they bother you when you sleep?"

"No. The meds help with that." Greg replied.

"Oh." Her eyebrows furrowed.

"Don't look at me like that, mom." He said. "It's part of the healing process."

"I can't stop worrying about you. You say you're fine, but I don't believe it." She said honestly.

"I – I just need time, I guess." Greg shrugged.

"You better go to sleep now. You need your rest. If you feel up to it, maybe we can go for Sunday brunch at the café tomorrow." She proceeded to fix Greg's blanket.

"Mom, I'm too old to be tucked in."

"No, sweetheart. You're never too old." She gave him a kiss on the forehead and turned off the book lamp. "Få en god natts søvn. (Get a good night's sleep.)"

"Ikke bekymre deg så mye. Jeg kommer til å bli bra. (Don't worry so much. I'll be fine.)" Greg replied.

"Ah, I love hearing you speak Norwegian. It's such a rare instance." Ingrid said in a delightful tone.

"I'm a little rusty, but I manage." He said as he got comfortable under the covers.

"Well, good night." She took the empty glass off the nightstand and headed out the door.

"Mom?" Greg called. She turned around.

"Yes?" Ingrid said with a hand on the door knob.

"You and Grissom –" Greg started, but was interrupted by his mother.

"Oh, we're just friends." Ingrid said sweetly. "Good night dear." She closed the door gently behind her.

Greg stared at the empty spot where his mother was just standing for a while. The light coming from the hall could be seen under the door. Although he decided to settle with her answer, something in his mother's voice was rather ambiguous.

The possibilities were endless.

End of Chapter 7

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Hope you will get a chance to sign a review too!


	8. Worthy of Praise

Author's Note: Reminder! This fic still takes place during season 8. That means Warrick is still alive and Sara's still gone.

Chapter 8: Worthy of Praise

Hoisted by a nifty hydraulic floor jack, the truck sustained a sturdy position with enough space for Nick to slide under it on a plastic creeper. His crisp navy blue CSI zip-up jumpsuit was already speckled with a few grease stains. Nick's torso was completely hidden under the front end of the vehicle.

A faint waft of motor oil and brake fluid circled the crime lab garage. The ventilation was a bit slow due to the place being located on the lower level of the building. There were no windows – just an airing shaft. In addition to the fluorescent lighting on the ceiling, multiple work lights were used to illuminate the cement paved room. The team often referred to the garage as "The Dungeon".

They had the garage all to themselves. This was one of the many advantages of working the night shift. There was no sharing of equipment or missing tools. The noisy elevators transporting personnel up and down from the garage were silent. There were no human conversations to interrupt trains of thought. The place was so quiet one could hear a drill bit drop.

"Hey monkey wrench, would ya pass me the open-end wrench?" Nick said as he held his hand out from underneath the old spruce colored Pontiac pick-up truck.

Also dressed in a navy blue CSI jumpsuit, Greg was standing in front of the utility cabinet with both hands on the drawer for support. He clearly heard Nick's request but for some reason, he just couldn't move. Perhaps it was the pain that kept him from mobility. Secretly nursing the soreness in his chest, he closed his eyes in hopes the endorphins in his system would organically extinguish the pain.

"It's the one with the U-shaped opening on both ends." Nick said. "Come on monkey wrench, speed it up. I don't have all night."

Greg only managed to move slowly after a few seconds. The dull pain bothered him, yet he refused to make it known. He figured worse case scenario, it wasn't something that a couple of pain killers couldn't fix. He rummaged through the tool utility drawer and found the wrench Nick needed. A spasm of pain exploded in his chest just as he was about to hand it over to Nick. He lost his grasp on the wrench and the chrome-plated alloy wrench hit the ground in a loud clank that echoed between the empty walls of the garage.

"Hey, what gives?" Nick said. The wheels of the plastic creeper made a scrapping noise against the dusty pavement as Nick pulled himself out from under the vehicle.

Greg scrambled to retrieve the wrench. "Sorry, I dropped it." He said sheepishly.

Nick instantly detected something was wrong when he saw the paleness in Greg's face and the overall way Greg carried himself. He stood up, dusted his pants, and wiped his hands on a rag.

"Here." Greg put forth the wrench. Nick took it and placed it back in the utility drawer.

"Greg?" Nick said with a concerned stare. "You feelin' alright?"

"Huh? Oh, I'm fine. Just a little tired, I think." Greg mumbled, appearing to sway slightly on his heels. The air in the room suddenly felt thin.

"Your face is as white as Hodges' starched lab coat." Nick commented. "You don't look fine to me."

"It's nothing really." Greg insisted in a slight drawl.

A swirl of colors swam before his eyes in slow motion. Nick's blurry face seemed to magically blend into a sea colors. Breathing became shallow and he had a hard time trying to figure out why he was able to hear his heart beating so loudly in his ears. His muscles felt relaxed and light – like as if his limbs were detached and weightless. Greg was clueless as to what was happening to his body.

The next thing he knew, he felt an excruciating sharp pain in his chest. Apparently, something had applied such unbearable pressure to his chest that it caused him to react with a bone-chilling shriek.

"Greg?!" Nick called intensely upon hearing his friend cry out in pain.

Suddenly, Greg was wide awake and found the source of the infliction. Nick had clasped his arms tightly around his waist. Greg turned his head and realized he was nearly leaning entirely on Nick's shoulder. He whimpered painfully, oblivious to what just happened.

"What'd you do that for?" Greg said weakly. His annoyed tone was a bit comical given the circumstance.

"What do you mean what did I do that for? You passed out and I caught you." Nick blurted.

"I passed out?" Greg said in a confused tone.

"Yea, you did." Nick confirmed.

"You can let go of me now." Greg said, not sure whether if he could stand on his own yet. Nick ignored his request and continued to support Greg via arm around the waist. He helped Greg over to a chair.

"Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?" Nick said.

"I'm ok. Just gimme a minute." Greg said. He shook off the dizziness and kneaded his chest.

"What the hell happened, Greg?" Nick pressed. His apprehension was starting to show.

"I dunno. One minute I was fine, then the next thing I knew, you had me pinned." Greg tried to explain.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted to prevent you from falling to the floor." Nick offered gently.

"I know." Greg replied. He rubbed the back of his neck. "The fumes got to me, I guess."

"It's more than just the fumes. Don't you think you might be pushing yourself too hard by coming back to work so soon?" Nick suggested.

"No." Greg answered. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"You can't work like this. You need to see a doctor and get checked out – make sure you're really ok." Nick said.

"I don't need a doctor." Greg challenged. "They're just gonna poke me with more needles, draw more blood, and run more tests."

"Greg, you passed out." Nick reminded. "It's something to be concerned about. Grissom's gonna have a thing or two to say about that."

"No, he's not. Grissom's not going to find out – because you're not going to tell him." Greg looked Nick squarely in the eye.

"That's ridiculous. Grissom has to know."

"Please don't tell him." Greg suddenly reverted to begging. "It's bad enough he won't let me go out in the field with you guys. And I can't process evidence in the lab because my hands shake. Forget about interrogation. He won't even let me near it. There's no place for me here. I don't want to be put behind a desk. You know how much that sucks. No one wants to be stuck on desk duty." He rambled. "Or worst – he'll send me home."

"Greg, listen to yourself. You're entitled to recover, you know. You're not even giving yourself a break." Nick said. "At this rate, you're going to get sick."

"You're beginning to sound like my mother." Greg huffed.

"Well, maybe she's right." Nick said. "You look like you're in pain."

"The drugs'll fix that."

"You can't rely on drugs for everything. They aren't miracle pills. You need plenty of rest. Besides, what's wrong with taking some days off? You can catch up on your daytime soaps." He tired to make a joke.

"Come on, Nick. You're supposed to be my friend."

"You ARE my friend and I care about you." Nick said seriously. "That's why I'm telling you to go home and get some rest or you'll end up in the hospital again."

"I know what I'm doing." Greg insisted.

"Either you tell Grissom or I will."

"You wouldn't, would you?" Greg looked up with pleading eyes. "You'd rat on me?"

"When your health is on the line, yes, I would."

"Ok, fine then I'll tell him." Greg volunteered a little too quickly.

"You promise?" Nick eyed him carefully.

"Yea. Yea." Greg waved off.

About four days after the dinner party at Greg's apartment, Greg had convinced Grissom that he was well enough to go back to work. He talked Grissom into a trial return so he could readjust to work hours. Grissom thought about it and gave permission on one condition – Greg was to be kept away from strenuous activity. He was allowed to do nothing more than lightly assist the others or take notes.

Greg had only been on the job a few hours but it felt like time stood still. He wanted prove to Grissom that he was completely healed and ready to take on the next big case. But he never realized that being back required so much energy. Not being able to handle his first night back at work would be a disappointment.

However, the night shift was glad to see Greg's return. He was greeted with warm hugs and friendly handshakes by everyone in the lab. Although, he was growing weary of the attention, Greg tried to be a good sport about it all.

Greg blushed over the amicable embraces given by Wendy and Mandy. He hadn't expected them to be so physical for a change. He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy their hugs. Their sympathetic concerns and friendliness appeared to be genuine and Greg was putty in their hands. He guessed having his life in danger did have its advantages – especially on the ladies.

Archie, Henry, and Dave were thrilled to see their friend back on his feet. They made a lot of noise and acted as immature as a couple of freshmen at a frat party. Greg laughed at their latest jokes over stale coffee in the lounge.

Even Hodges was a little more sensitive towards Greg's situation. They exchanged a few words in the hallway. Greg couldn't tell if this humanistic behavior was influenced by Grissom's favoritism or if it was truly unadulterated empathy. Either way, he was courteous to Hodges.

Greg insisted he didn't need to be escorted to the locker room to change out of his jumpsuit. Nick refused to leave Greg alone for a minute since the scary episode in the garage. He was afraid that if Greg passed out again, there would be no one around to help. Greg, being the brave soul that he was, reassured Nick that he didn't need a sitter.

"So you're going to go to Grissom after the locker room, right?" Nick asked for the fifth time during their elevator ride up to the main level.

"Yea. I will." Greg replied. "Right after I change out of this suit. I promise."

Nick eyed him to see if he meant it. And apparently, Greg sounded convincing enough for Nick to back off.

"You don't need to worry about me. You can go back to the garage. I'll be fine." Greg ordered.

"Don't tell me what to do. You're not my boss. If I want to worry about you, I will." Nick said while trying to be humorous and sensitive at the same time.

"No big deal. Just a gun shot wound." Greg smiled. He dared not touch his chest no matter how uncomfortable he felt. He couldn't give Nick any suspicion that he was unwell.

"I'm gonna check on you later." Nick said as he went back into the elevator to return to the garage.

* * *

In Grissom's Office Some Hours Later:

A silver rimmed pair of spectacles lay perched on the bridge of Grissom's nose as he perused through the papers on his desk. The halogen desk lamp gave off a cool light illuminating the whole area of the desk. A black mug stood boldly on a coaster within arm's reach. Entwining steam from the coffee was still piping upwards. The soft sound of ruffling paper was the only noise that filled the room. There was an occasional clicking of heels against the polished tiles as employees of the night shift walked by in the hallway. He liked to leave his door open. It relieved the claustrophobia.

Surrounded by books and a collection of petrified specimens and preserved insects, his office was his comfort zone. Grissom carefully tasted his coffee without tearing his eyes away from the report he was reading pertaining to his latest case. The quietness allowed him to think and rework the theories in his head.

"Hey Griss, I found out what was making that noise in the gas tank! It was a bullet. How it got there? Haven't figured it out yet. But I sent the bullet to ballistics. By the way, have you seen Greg?" Nick rambled loudly as he turned into the doorway to Grissom's office.

"Shhh. Lower your voice." Grissom interrupted and pointed to the sofa.

Nick understood when he saw Greg's figure lay fast asleep on the old sofa in the semi-dark room. Greg had kicked off his sneakers and lay stretched out on his side. He had used an old cushion for a pillow. And spread across his shoulders was what appeared to be Grissom's blazer.

Nick smiled at the sight before him. He wondered how long the kid had been sleeping there. It took a lot for Grissom to allow for naps during the work night. Grissom always pushed his team as far as they could go. He frowned upon slackers and silently praised over achievers. There were no limits because he set no boundaries. He wanted his subordinates to excel. After all, he believed he had the best team in the department. There was nothing more he could ask for. Sometimes, he pushed a little too hard and demanded a little too much.

Nick noticed Grissom's change in behavior for Greg's awful demise. Naturally, the guilt hit all of them. But for Grissom, he took things harder. Being the supervisor, Grissom was held responsible for his team. Greg's dance with death was perhaps too close for comfort. Thereafter, Grissom vowed to look after the youngest member of the team a bit more diligently.

"Ah, good. So he told you." Nick said in a satisfied tone.

"Told me what?" Grissom asked inquisitively. He removed his glasses as Nick stepped into his office.

"About what happened." Nick eyed Grissom. "In the garage?"

"And what happened in the garage?" Grissom grew curious.

"He didn't tell you." Nick stated. And judging by the perplexed look on Grissom's face, Nick realized Greg had not gone through with his promise.

"No." Grissom said.

"Greg passed out." Nick revealed. "He was supposed to tell you. I should've known he wasn't going to do it himself."

Grissom shot a troubled glance at Greg's direction. "He only came in here telling me that he was tired and if he could crash on the sofa for an hour. He didn't mention about passing out."

"He was helping me with the tools and things were going ok for a while. He didn't say he wasn't feeling well. I guess he kept that part to himself. It was like a rug was pulled right out from under him. He lost his balance and I caught him. It seemed like he was in some kinda pain though. " Nick said. "I don't know what's going on with him. He's really pushing it."

Grissom didn't think there would be any harm in having Greg come in, but after hearing this, he was not so sure. From the angle where Grissom sat, he could see the crown of Greg's messy brown hair.

"What are we gonna do?" Nick asked.

"Let him sleep it off. I'll have a talk with him when he wakes." Grissom said.

"I'll be in the garage if you need me." Nick said. He left shortly after another few exchange of words pertaining to the case at hand.

About an hour later, Grissom finished reviewing his notes and closed the folder. He leaned back on his chair with arms crossed over his chest. Rubbing his salt and pepper beard slightly, his eyes drifted towards Greg, who shifted several times in his sleep.

Grissom got up and walked around his desk to stretch his legs. He noticed two small plastic containers of prescription pills and a half bottle of water on the end table near where Greg was sleeping. Grissom picked up the pill containers and read the labels. The first contained painkillers and the second contained tranquilizers. Grissom was surprised at the heavy dosage of morphine that Greg had been taking. For Greg to be taking such a high dose, he must've been in tremendous pain.

Grissom put the pills back on the table and stared down at Greg for a moment. He adjusted the blazer that had fallen off Greg's shoulders and realized it was a mistake to have the kid come back to work so quickly.

* * *

Some More Hours Later:

The demon in the grey hooded sweatshirt did not have a face this time. It was just a black void. But Greg could still smell the staleness of the monster's breath. He was running barefoot through the same thick forest and tripped over the same knotted ground. There was no escaping the demon because it was too fast and clever. Dashing effortlessly after Greg, its laughter echoed into the cold and unforgiving forest. Greg felt the sharp blade of its claws penetrate the flesh on his face.

No one heard his cries for help. With a claw raised and ready to strike down at the defenseless young man, something changed. For the first time in the history of this repetitive dream, the demon spoke. In a deep raspy voice, it said "You'll be sorry."

With a startling shake, he woke from his dream to find himself lying safely on the sofa in Grissom's office.

"Everything ok?" Grissom's calm voice came from somewhere in the room.

Greg sat up and rubbed his eyes. He saw Grissom sitting at his desk behind a stack of folders. A thick bundle of papers were scattered in front of him but he didn't appear to be paying attention to any of them. In fact, he had been staring at Greg the whole time.

"Um, yea. Fine." Greg stumbled.

"That must've been some dream you were having." Grissom pointed out observantly.

"Hope I didn't say anything embarrassing." Greg made light of the subject. He looked at his watch. "Oh man! I've been sleeping for the past three hours. Why didn't you wake me up?" He scrambled to put on his shoes.

Grissom stared at Greg.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Greg said from the sofa.

"I'm trying to decide whether I should take you to the hospital or send you home." Grissom said steadily. "Greg, I thought we had an understanding. Why didn't you tell me what happened? I had to find that out from Nick."

"I didn't want to freak everybody out on my first day back." Greg said. "Look, I was going to tell you. Besides, I feel fine now."

"Grab your stuff." Grissom said as he got up and took his keys from a drawer. "Don't forget your meds." He pointed to the table.

Greg stuffed the containers into his pants pocket and hurried after Grissom.

"Where are we going?" Greg said.

"I'm taking you home. You can't be here right now." Grissom said sternly.

"Home? But I'm fine." He tried not to be argumentative with his boss but it was difficult being that he really didn't want to go home before his shift was up.

"Greg." Grissom stopped in his tracks and looked fiercely into Greg's eyes. "Who's in charge here?" His voice caught a few stares from employees within earshot.

"You are." Greg darted his eyes nervously around the hallway.

"Good." Grissom said as he continued walking down the hall.

They headed towards the parking garage and got into Grissom's car. As they drove down Sahara Avenue, the hypnotic twinkling neon lights against the night sky made Greg's eyes tired but he dared not fall asleep. The time on the dashboard blinked 12:48 am. It was way too early to be feeling tired, especially since he'd slept so much already. He fought to stay awake as Grissom drove him home.

At some point during the ride, he must've carelessly dozed off because one second, they turned onto Valley View Boulevard, and the next thing he knew, they had arrived at the apartment complex.

Greg and Grissom took the elevator to the fourth floor. Their feet shuffled against the plush carpeting in the hall. They stopped at room 4H. Greg fumbled for the keys in his pocket. Just as he pulled out his keys, the door opened.

"Greg! You're home early." Ingrid said at the door. Greg had told her earlier to not wait up for him. But somehow, he knew she wouldn't listen.

"Hey, mom." Greg greeted groggily and gave her a kiss on the cheek before proceeding into the apartment.

"Hello, Ingrid." Grissom said and materialized behind Greg. Even in her sleep clothes with no make up on and rollers in her hair, Ingrid still looked amazing.

"Gil! I didn't expect you at this hour of the night." Ingrid blushed. "Won't you please come in?" She invited.

"No, that's quite alright. I'm needed back at the crime lab. I just wanted to drop Greg off. You might want to take him to see a doctor tomorrow. He had a bit of a fainting spell today." Grissom said.

"Fainting spell??" Ingrid said in bewilderment as she looked at Greg.

"It's nothing to get excited over, mom." Greg said.

"Don't listen to him." Grissom said.

"Oh, I know. He'll give you a thousand excuses. And not one of them is true." She said while darting an all knowingly glance at her son.

"Get him checked out. Make sure he's ok." Grissom said.

"Of course." Ingrid said. "Thank you for bringing him home."

"Don't mention it." Grissom replied. "Have a good night, Ingrid."

"Good night." Ingrid said. Their eyes locked for a split second.

"Take care, Greg. Call me tomorrow." Grissom said, breaking the awkward trance.

Ingrid locked the door after Grissom left. She walked into the living room to where Greg sat on the sofa. She took a seat next to him in the dimly lit room.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?" Ingrid asked gently.

"Nothing. It's nothing." Greg said and leaned back on the sofa.

"It's definitely something if your boss has to bring you home." She responded. "Greg, why do you always have to prove yourself?"

"I do not." Greg protested.

"Come on, this is your mother you're talking to." She said.

"For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm a part of something. Let's face it - I've never really belonged anywhere. Even in school, I never found a proper niche. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Going to a school for the gifted really put a damper on my coolness. Being labeled a nerd and freak by the kids from the public schools, I never had a chance to fit in." Greg revealed. "I know Grissom counts on me a great deal, just like the other guys. I just don't want to ruin the good thing that I have going."

"You're afraid they might forget you." Ingrid summed up. "Your friends will not forget you."

Greg stared at the ceiling.

"Do you know how much time all of them spent by your beside while you were in intensive care? I don't know any people who would do that unless they truly cared." Ingrid said. "You're afraid of their abandonment. You're afraid of how much that would hurt. I know why you are this way."

Greg remained silent.

"It seems like no matter what you do, you don't feel it's enough. It's because of the way you were brought up. I have partially to blame for that." Ingrid said.

"It's not your fault, mom. It's HIS fault. It's always been his fault." Greg said softly. He tried to muster up the anger to lash out at his father's resentment but he couldn't find it.

"All the love in the world couldn't make up for what he did. Though, I really tried." Ingrid offered.

"Your love has always been important. And I wouldn't trade that in for anything in the world." Greg looked at his mother. "It's just that I like being useful and wanted. I'm good at what I do and doing it for the people who appreciate it."

"I know by now that it's not in Grissom's nature to say certain things directly to you. But I can tell you this – rest assured, he will not cast you aside. You just need to have a little faith in him. He's told me things."

"When was this? What sort of things?" Greg asked inquisitively.

"Oh, you know, we had lots of coffee while you were in the hospital. And we talked." She answered with a slight yawn. "Greg, he surprises me."

"How so?"

"Well, I never realized how much he cared about you until that moment. He's tried very hard to do what's best in your interest. He told me things you kept from me – things like your decision to become a CSI, getting promoted, and accepted. And yes, I know all about the proficiency test. The second time is always a charm." She giggled.

"What else did he say about me?" His thirst for more increased.

"He's told me about cases you worked on and how you excelled at your job. Basically, he thinks you're brilliant."

(Grissom thinks I'm brilliant!?) Greg thought wildly. Never in a million years did he ever expect Grissom to think that way about a fledgling CSI, who's still very green behind the ears.

"He does appreciate your hard work and quick thinking. You bring a new light to each case – it's like a breath of fresh air, he said." Ingrid continued.

"Wow." Greg sighed. This revelation was definitely an eye opener.

"Apparently, he thinks what happened to you was his fault. He couldn't stop apologizing to me – and gracefully, I just kept crying." She said ironically. "The tears were uncontrollable. I was touched by his compassion and humility."

"It wasn't Grissom's fault that I got shot."

"Believe me, I've told him that many times. You were at the wrong time, at the wrong place. Maybe a bit of bad timing."

"So, he really thinks I'm brilliant?" Greg marveled.

"Yes, but don't expect him to come right out and say it to you. He keeps things inside." She spoke. "I'm telling you all this because I don't want you to feel scared or worry about gaining approval and worthiness. You already have it. Grissom's a good man."

"I know."

"Good. Now, enough of this rambling. I'm going to take you to the doctor's office in the morning." She changed the subject.

"I'm fine, mom. There's nothing wrong with me."

"We're going to see the doctor whether you like it or not. Now, why don't you change out of those clothes and go lie down? I'll make some tea and bring you a cup."

Greg decided he wasn't in the mood to argue, so he obeyed. Besides, he was feeling a little weak and the idea of lying down didn't sound so bad.

Knowing that Grissom was proud of him meant a lot. In was kind of hard to digest the fact that Grissom thought him to be brilliant. If anything, Grissom was the brilliant one. Greg always saw himself only as a miniscule part of the equation. Each member of the team contributed their strength to the case. Greg, of all people, understood that. He rarely succumbed to egoism but when he did, it was only done out of jest to spite his colleagues.

In a strange way, Grissom was like a father to him. Grissom had done more for him than his own biological father would ever have. Greg didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize the relationship he had with Grissom. His heart was weak, in more ways than one. He just couldn't take another rejection.

It was hard enough to figure out what was going on in Grissom's complex mind on a daily basis. Grissom wouldn't bear his soul to just anyone. Something changed. It must've taken a great impact for him to reveal such secrets. Perhaps there was something about seeing a battered body hooked up to life sustaining machines that weakened Grissom's emotional barrier.

Greg realized that his brush of death deeply affected not only Grissom, but the other teammates as well. Thinking back, their behavior did seem rather unusual – they all seemed nicer. It was awkward. He kind of liked it better when they teased him.

End of Chapter 8

Author's Note: Thanks for reading!! Please sign a review when you get a chance!


	9. Confrontation

Just a Friendly Note: In case you're curious, this story will not be a slash. I just like to explore the potential father-son relationship between Greg and Grissom as well as the brotherly bond Greg have with Warrick and Nick.

Chapter 9: Confrontation

_Dinfast_ was the term the night shift coined the meal that came between dinner and breakfast. Working the night shift, midday lunch breaks did not exist. Instead, they received midnight "dinfast" breaks. As romantic as that sounded, it was rather an inconvenience to search for food during this time. The only place in the area that opened late was either the Jack in the Box or the Rice King Chinese take-out down the street. With a lack of variety and choices, most of the team brought in their own food and utilized the refrigerator in the department's lounge.

The lounge was a small room located to the left of the elevators on the main level. It was a typical kitchen with a refrigerator, a microwave, a coffee machine, a couple of cabinets, a sink, and a large rectangular table with a scatter of plastic chairs. There was a paper attached to the refrigerator door. In black bold capital letters, it read "Please eat only what you bring." This note was meant partially as a joke between the day shift and the night shift, which originated a few years ago. Apparently, someone from the day shift left a dangerously tempting box of Ethel M's chocolates in the fridge. And naturally, the only thing left the next day, was an empty box. There were a lot of accusations and suspicions being thrown around but no one ever coughed up a confession.

"What'cha got today?" Nick said upon seeing Greg sitting at the table as he casually entered the department lounge.

Startled, Greg appeared to jump up nervously in his seat. He'd been tense and edgy around the office lately. Sudden sounds and loud noises made his anxiety worse. Sometimes, it was rather evident that these instances affected him in the most severe way. His friends expressed their concerns but he was always heedless about it and treated it as nothing more than just nerves.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." Nick drew back. He often forgot how fragile his friend had become.

"You didn't." Greg replied bravely as he continued to spoon the contents from a square plastic microwavable container into his mouth. His hands shook slightly thereafter.

"Mmm, Spaghetti O's." Nick said unenthusiastically as he took a peek into Greg's container. "Judging by the meal out of a can, I guess your mother left?"

"Hey, they didn't make you CSI level III for nothing." Greg said in regards to Nick's deductive reasoning. "She went back to New York a few days ago." He stared blankly at the saucy pasta.

"You miss her, don't you?" Nick said.

"Yea well, she had to take care of some business. She says she's comin' back to Vegas in two weeks." Greg explained. "Spaghetti O's aren't so bad – brings back memories." He said on a light note.

"Yea, from the first grade." Nick added as he opened the refrigerator door.

"Ok big shot, what'd you bring?" Greg said while taking in another spoonful.

Nick retrieved a container wrapped in a plastic bag from the refrigerator. "Homemade stuff. From home." He replied proudly.

"No way. You made it?" Greg sounded surprised and at the same time, skeptical about his friend's answer.

"What? I can cook." Nick said defensively as he peeled open the cover and proceeded to put the container into the microwave. He shut the microwave door and pressed the buttons on the panel.

"Nuking things in the microwave does not qualify as cooking." Greg retorted. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"I'm deeply offended by that insult, Greg. I'll have you know that I may never be half the great cook your mom is, but the Stokes family does have a few secret recipes circulating here and there." Nick joked.

"It's hard to believe that you can cook anything." Greg laughed.

"I'm a man of many talents." Nick protested. He stood leaning his back against the counter with his arms folded across his chest.

"Jack of all trades." Greg laughed unconvincingly. He took a swig out of his water bottle and took out a small plastic container of prescription pills from his pocket.

"You still on them?" Nick asked as he watched Greg pour out a pill onto his hand.

"2.5 mgs of Percocet." Greg said. "My doctor decreased the dosage. Pain's gotten easier to manage but it's still there." He popped the pill into his mouth and took a long drink of water.

"You can easily get addicted to that stuff." Nick shot a worried glance. "I know because I've been there."

"I've been taking painkillers so much that by the time I'm through, my liver is gonna look like ground beef." Greg chortled.

"Just be careful." Nick advised. He looked after Greg like a little brother.

They were interrupted by the beeping sound of the microwave. Nick took the hot container out and brought it to the table. He took a seat facing Greg.

"What is it?" Greg asked staring at the interesting texture of the contents.

"We Texans have something we call The Big Three when it comes to food – Barbeque, Chili, and Chicken Fried Steak." Nick explained.

"I assume that would be the chicken fried steak." Greg said while staring at what appeared to be a tenderized slab of breaded meat cut into strips, string beans, and corn. "Hmm, are you sure you followed the recipe? Looks a little dry."

"I'm supposed to put gravy on it." Nick looked quizzically at his food. "But I left it at home." This caused Greg to laugh. Typical bachelor.

"Why do they call it Chicken Fried Steak when it's not even chicken? Why not just call it fried steak?" Greg asked as he finished the last of his Spaghetti O's.

"It has to do with the process in frying. It's the same method used to frying chicken. So down in the south, they call it Chicken-Fried." Nick said as he stabbed a piece with a fork.

"So, the chicken version of it would be chicken-fried chicken?" Greg scratched his head. "It sounds redundant."

"Hey, I don't make up the names. I just eat the food." Nick said while chewing a mouthful. He watched Greg get up to bring his container over to the sink.

There was no hurry in getting back to work. It had been a slow night for a change. He was glad that crime slowed down even if just for a day. But things were bound to pick up soon. The holidays were approaching, which meant mayhem won't be too far behind in sin city.

Greg had been gradually getting himself reacquainted with his job upon his authorized return. After the fainting incident, Greg was put through a grueling week with doctors and enough tests to make his head spin. The doctor switched prescriptions on him so many times that even Greg had suspicions if it was right.

Then, a mandatory week of stress-free home rest followed. Greg juggled the typical lifestyle of a cat, which basically consisted of sleeping and eating. Boredom often hit at the most unusual times. Greg repeatedly called the office to ask for something to do - offering to do research on the internet or make phone calls, anything that would occupy his time. His teammates found it rather amusing that Greg kept calling them begging for work. They enjoyed teasing him – most of the time telling him to go to sleep, or get a few good DVDs, or go listen to some Marilyn Manson CDs or something.

When Greg was finally deemed well enough to go back to work, he was ecstatic with joy. He was willing to tackle any project, with Grissom's permission of course. Although he was a little disappointed at being given the easy jobs, Greg still did them with pride. "Remember, Rome wasn't built in one day." Grissom used to say to him.

The first order of business, Grissom sent him down to the morgue to retrieve autopsy results from Doc Robbins. Stiffs usually didn't affect Greg the least bit. Somewhere along the way he developed an immunity to seeing dead bodies. Grissom said, "Every day we meet people on the worst day of their lives." Dead bodies were just another day on the job. Greg was used to it. It did not repulse him. However, he found himself staring relentlessly at the latest fatality lying on the slab.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the dead man's purplish skin and glassy milk-colored empty eyes. Doc Robbins had not sewn up the Y-incision yet. With the man's chest still wide open, Greg obsessively focused on the discolored innards. Doc's voice seemed to drift off somewhere into the background. Greg could hardly blink. It could've been him on that slab had he died that night. In one eerie moment, the dead man's face morphed and changed into Greg's reflection.

Doc must've called Greg's name at least three times before he looked up. When asked if he was alright, Greg reassured him that he was fine. He quickly took the report from Doc and left the coldness of the morgue.

Next, Catherine took Greg with her to process another crime scene. It was at the residence of the victim – a scanty apartment in the slums of Clark County. Brass had cleared the area and the body had just been released to the morgue. It really wasn't the gruesome blood splatter that got to Greg. He could deal with the blood just fine. It was something else that got his undivided attention. Catherine found the murder weapon carelessly discarded behind an old couch. It was a 9mm Magnum semi-automatic revolver – similar in appearance to the one that nearly killed Greg.

He may not have remembered much else but there was one thing he could never erase from his memory - the barrel of that gun and the flash of light as the weapon fired. Then, having the wind knocked out of him as he hit the ground.

Greg stood nearly paralyzed as he watched Catherine handle the gun in a relaxed manner, like she had done a million times before. She bagged and tagged it carefully. Hidden inside a paper evidence bag, the gun may have been out of sight, but as far as Greg was concerned, it was not out of his mind. He just couldn't let it go. Even as Catherine moved onto collecting other evidence, Greg was still standing there, staring at the paper bag that held the gun. Unable to move, the ghastly images exploded in his mind as his heart raced in his chest. Catherine noticed Greg's odd behavior when she asked him to pass her the swabs. She immediately caught his fixation on the gun.

A touch on the arm brought Greg back to reality. He saw the look on Catherine's worried face and knew there was no excuse in the world that could save him. She asked him what happened. He replied an awkward but truthful, "I don't know."

Thereafter, Catherine had an assistant take a bunch of bagged evidence back to the lab for immediate processing – including the gun. Greg eased up after the gun left the premises. He helped Catherine photograph and collect the rest of the evidence.

The ride back to the lab started off in silence. Greg knew what was on Catherine's mind and he had a feeling Grissom was going to know about it sooner or later. He admitted frankly that seeing the gun made him nervous. It made all the memories come back. He apologized for freezing up and that he'll try not to let it happen again. Catherine shifted into mother hen mode and expressed her concern for his well-being.

Nick and Warrick were working on a case that happened about a week ago. It was a drive by shooting that ended up in the death of a gang member and two presumably innocent bystanders. There were too many extraneous variables and cases like these usually took a good number of days. They had to close the gap on all possibilities and connections between those involved. As much as Greg wanted to help, Nick kept him far away from this particular case. Nick felt Greg was not ready to be thrown into something so deep yet. Instead, Nick allowed Greg to process evidence, lift prints off cell phones and other items, as well as match things up on the databases.

The department lounge was a nice, peaceful place to eat and mingle with the colleagues. It was the one room in the department that everyone used for coffee breaks, munch attacks, breathing space, and gossip room.

Greg washed his container in the sink and dried it off with a paper towel.

"So, have you seen Murphy yet?" Nick said in between bites.

"I don't need to see a shrink." Greg replied.

"No, but you should." Nick said. "It really helps. You know, I didn't think I needed it either, but I'm glad I went. There's nothing embarrassing about it."

"I know." Greg muttered. He really didn't feel like going into that topic. Seeing the department's psychiatrist was a big step – one that he didn't feel ready for yet. He kept his problems a secret.

There was an awkward pause. Greg changed the subject quickly. "I'll be going with Warrick and Brass to the Correctional Facility in the morning."

"What? Says who?" Nick said.

"Relax, I already cleared it with Warrick. I figure since I was the one who found the link between the dead gang member and Terrell Jones, who is already doing time for manslaughter, I should be there for the interrogation. It's only fair." Greg walked back to the table and sat down.

"And Warrick said this was ok? Grissom knows about this?" Nick could barely contain his skepticism.

"Yea and yea." Greg quipped.

"Are you sure you're up for something like that? That place can be pretty scary." Nick warned.

"That's why we have Brass present."

"I can't believe they allowed you to go. I would never have allowed it."

"Don't be jealous. I'm just in it for the ride." Greg joked. "They made me promise to stay in the background and not get involved with the interrogation." He rolled his eyes. "Anything's better then being stuck here, I guess."

"I know you're eager to jump back into the routine. I was the same way after being buried alive and eaten by fire ants." He shivered. "All I wanted to do was get back to work and forget it ever happened. You have to talk about it and take it one day at a time. The trauma is still there, Greg. You think it's gone and you're ok, but it's not."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil – for the advice. I don't think going to a correctional facility with two other guys will jog up the memory of being shot point blank." Greg said with a bit of sarcasm in his tone as he dismissed Nick's seriousness.

* * *

At The Nevada State Penitentiary:

The white tiled halls of the prison reeked of bleach and disinfectants. Loud squeaky gates and irritating buzzers echoed somewhere in the spacious facility. Armed prison guards patrolled their areas with stern, unfeeling faces. A mixture of gruff rambling voices, inhuman grunting, and howling could be heard from the tiered cells as a warden lead the threesome through the atrium.

They were lead into a small plain room. There was enough space only for a sturdy card table that was bolted to the floor and four chairs. The dim 60 watt lighting was anything but pleasant. Old paint were flaking and peeling from the cream colored ceiling. There were no windows for the purpose of preventing distraction. It gave a claustrophobic feel to the room as Brass, Warrick, Greg, and the warden awaited for the transport of the inmate.

Two burly guards brought in Terrell Jones. Dressed in an orange jumpsuit and locked up in metal shackles around his wrists and ankles, it appeared highly unlikely that he would escape. Terrell Jones was a brawny dark-skinned man of about thirty five with a shaved head, who looked as though he spent a lot of time working out in the prison gym. Gangster tattoos could be seen on his hands and neck. He appeared to be unruffled and cool.

Terrell sized up Warrick at a glance. Seeing that he couldn't bully Warrick, he threatened Greg with his cold eyes for a moment until Brass said something. With a smirk, Terrell brought his attention to the detective.

The relationship between Greg and Brass was never a tight one, rather, it was one purely built on acquired taste. In Greg's lab days, Brass always got the impression that Greg's behavior was juvenile and often mistook his determination for sucking up. But ever since Greg's horrific beating, Brass saw him less and less as an immature pest and valued him more as a team player. Perhaps the beating was a turning point for everyone.

Their jobs didn't always require interaction with each other. But on the few occasions when he did get to work with Brass, they were cordial and amicable. Greg felt he had a connection with Brass since they now had something in common – they both took a bullet on the job. Brass did seem nicer in his own subtle way. Brass, of all people, knew what it was like to get shot. He felt no one should ever have to go through that – especially Greg. To Brass, Greg was just a kid.

The interrogation began with a rocky start. Like a true inmate, Terrell showed no desire to cooperate. The warden advised him to collaborate but he did not budge. Brass anticipated this would happen. Emotionless, he was used to dealing with these clowns. The only way they would talk would be to pull leverage over them or cut some sort of deal. Terrell had such a long rap sheet that he must've stepped on someone's tail somewhere along the way. This was where Brass had to do his homework.

It often surprised Greg how well Brass did his job. He covered all his bases and knew how to deal with even the toughest criminal. Brass had a laid-back way of dispensing threats. Greg always found it amusing how Brass always maintained his cool even under the most trying circumstances. He had immense respect for Brass – more than Brass would ever know.

Criminal activity associated with gangs was often sticky. Most of the time, it was habitually about turf wars and vengeance. All it took was one person to catapult a gang war. Brass was smart. He played all his cards right. Blackmail was easy.

Eventually, Terrell was forced to talk and Brass and Warrick had their questions answered. Greg watched intently as the scene unfolded and information revealed. Once the inquiries concluded, everyone got up and the warden summoned the guards outside to escort Terrell back to his cell. But just before doing so, Terrell felt he needed to redeem his malice by terrorizing the weakest member of the group. He jerked towards Greg like as if he was about to pounce on him. Terrell then refrained with a crackle of laughter when he saw Greg drew back in defense.

Greg would be lying if that didn't freak him out. His heart raced madly and a small pain developed in his chest. The warden gave the inmate a serious warning that didn't seem to have any influence on him at all. Either way, Terrell left giddy and satisfied.

Warrick and Greg waited out in the hall as Brass followed the warden into the office to clear some documentation.

"You ok?" Warrick asked Greg.

"Huh? Yea, fine." Greg said nervously. He felt so white in the face right then that his freckles could probably be seen a mile away.

"Don't let that guy bother you. He thinks he's so tough. But look where he's at. Twenty-five to life for manslaughter. He'll live out his days in the slammer." Warrick eyed him carefully.

"Yea." Greg said as he swallowed the lump in his throat. He looked like a frightened jackrabbit getting cornered by a ravenous wolf. A quivered sigh passed his lips.

They were distracted by multiple voices coming from around the corridor. The shuffling of footsteps got louder as the people approached. It appeared to be two guards and an inmate walking through the corridor. The guards had a grasp on each of the inmate's upper arms. The prisoner was wearing the standard jumpsuit with shackles cuffed to his wrists and ankles.

Greg's heart nearly stopped when he recognized the prisoner. He stood there in a petrified state while staring at the man passing by. He was suddenly transported back to that side street behind The Four Queens. Maybe it wasn't that he _couldn't_ identify the person who shot him. Perhaps he saw him but the whole ordeal was so horrible that his mind blocked it out. Whatever the case, all the suppressed memories came rushing back – the man in the hooded sweatshirt, the gun, the bullet piercing his chest, the hot smell of melted flesh, the blood, the blood, the blood…

This was truly an anomaly. It was a rare coincidence that Greg should have a run-in with the man who pulled the trigger. Cody Michaels looked up and caught Greg's eyes. It didn't seem to bother Cody that he was looking into the eyes of someone he almost killed. He seemed indifferent.

Greg's heartbeat slammed uncomfortably in his chest. His hands got clammy and chills ran down his spine. He swore there was something wrong with his lungs because a wave of dizziness hit as oxygen failed to reach his head.

Warrick recognized Cody too. He couldn't believe the chances of this happening. Speechless, Warrick watched the guards and Cody passed by.

"Greg?" Warrick called worriedly when they were out of sight.

Dazed, Greg watched their figures saunter down the hall until they became small specs in the distance. Greg was in an abyss of mortification. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He just stood there white-faced and feeling extremely sick.

"Greg?" Warrick called again. He placed a hand on Greg's shoulder. "Greg, snap out of it. Come on, breathe."

A sickly moan escaped Greg's lips. Feeling lightheaded and woozy, he thought he was going to pass out for sure. He couldn't handle facing the person who put a bullet in his chest. It was just too much. He turned his head and looked at Warrick. Warrick immediately noticed Greg's complexion changed for the worse.

"You'd better sit down. You don't look so good." Warrick said while pulling him over to a bench but Greg wouldn't budge. His feet seemed to be rooted to the floor.

A slightly louder horrified moan passed the poor kid's lips. His stomach gave a fierce kick and he tasted bile in his mouth. He ignored Warrick and made a dash for the men's room a few doors down.

Greg pushed the door open. Luckily, there was no one in the entire bathroom to witness him getting sick. Never even making it to the toilet, he was only able to reach one of the sinks. Grasping the sides of the sink, he hurled violently.

The vomit was a thick chunky orangy-brownish mixture. He hung his head down for a second as another bout of nausea shook his body. It was followed by another heave and more regurgitation. He choked on the last of the vomit. When it was finally over, he turned on the sink at full blast to clean up.

"Greg?" Warrick said. He had followed Greg into the men's room.

"I'm fine." Greg said weakly. "There goes my breakfast." His attempt to be funny was not successful. Warrick's face was serious and full of concern.

"You feel better?" Warrick said.

"Yea." Greg replied while splashing cold water on his face. He appeared to tremble slightly.

"I'm sorry you had to see that." Warrick said. "If I had known he was here – "

"It's ok." Greg interjected. "It couldn't have been prevented."

"You're shaking like a leaf." Warrick took a few steps closer.

Without thinking, Greg took a step back like a frightened, injured animal. It was the mechanical fight or flight reflex in Greg's body speaking. For some weird reason, he felt threatened when his friend approached. He had no explanations for tensing up. Greg's edginess did not go unnoticed by Warrick.

"It's ok Greg." Warrick reassured. His voice was softer. "No one's gonna hurt you."

"I'm sorry I freaked out back there." Greg apologized. "I dunno – "

"I understand, don't worry about it." Warrick cut in. "You're in a tough situation right now. There are probably a lot of things going on in your head that you can't figure out. Just know that your friends are here and care very much about you. If you ever need to talk…"

"I know." Greg appreciated the offer but it was highly unlikely that he should open his can of worms with Warrick. Warrick was a good guy and loyalty was in his blood. Like Nick, he would do anything to protect and help Greg out. But Greg felt he had to somehow overcome his battles on his own.

"You're never alone, ok?" Warrick said, nearly reading Greg's mind.

"Thanks." Greg said and finished cleaning himself up. He had a feeling Grissom was going to know about this little episode whether he liked it or not. There was no use in begging Warrick to keep quiet about this. Warrick wasn't as lenient and bendable as Nick.

Brass spotted them as they immerged from the bathroom. "You guys ready to go?" He called as Warrick and Greg approached.

"Yea, this place gives me the creeps." Warrick said while eyeing Greg.

Brass looked at his colleagues and figured by the pale look on Greg's face, that something was amiss. "Everything ok?"

"Yea." Warrick said. "We just ran into Cody Michaels a while ago."

Brass got the hint and looked at Greg, who avoided eye contact and remained silent. "Ta, what are the odds of that? They need to lock that son of a bitch up and throw away the key." Brass said in Greg's defense. Greg managed an awkward grin.

With his fists dug deeply into his jean pockets, Greg followed Brass and Warrick out the facility and into the parking lot. He was relieved to finally get out of that building. The rubber soles of his sneakers scratched against the pavement as he walked to the car. His head hung down and he appeared to be absorbed with the laces on his shoes.

Brass and Warrick read each other's thoughts on the ride back. Brass drove and Warrick took up the passenger seat while Greg sat in the back seat. Greg was awfully quiet. He starred out the window at the passing scenery but his mind was clearly somewhere else.

Brass shot a questioning glance at Warrick, who returned it with a quick knowing look. "The kid alright?" Brass asked in a low tone.

"Hope so." Warrick said with a touch of uncertainty in his voice. "He got spooked back there."

"Is that so?" Brass said rhetorically. "By the looks of things, he probably got a little sick too."

Warrick nodded. "I feel bad for letting him come. It turned into a bit of a nightmare."

"It's a big step to stare into the eyes of the person who shot you. It only takes someone a fraction of a second to pull the trigger. That second between the firing of the gun and the bullet entering your body will not seem like a second. It will seem like five minutes. And you never forget it no matter how hard you try." Brass said coming from experience. "For me, it's William Cutler. For Greg, it's Cody Michaels."

Greg seemed to tense up at the mere suggestion of the name. Confronting the man that shot him point blank was the hardest and scariest thing he ever had to do. Being pounded to the ground by a gang of masked teenagers took a back seat to being shot. Punching fists and rib kicking intended to deeply injure but not necessarily to kill. A bullet intended to kill.

Cody Michaels gave off a different kind of fear in Greg. Holding the fate of a life in his hands, Cody had power over Greg. Cody chose not to spare Greg the chance to live. And in a split second, he tried to take everything away.

Greg understood the perspective of the victim more now than he ever did. He felt the anger, the vulnerability, the helplessness, the depression, and above all, the constant fear. The nightmares were one thing, but now, Greg often found himself a nervous wreck at the smallest instances.

He just didn't know how much longer he could live his life looking over his shoulder.

End of Chapter 9

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Hope you get a chance to sign a review!


	10. Greg's Dark Secret

Chapter 10: Greg's Dark Secret

Grissom owned a 3-story condominium in a nice quiet neighborhood in Summerlin. It was an eighteen minute drive from the crime lab and approximately 11.9 miles away from downtown Las Vegas. He figured the location was ideal since he had the best of both worlds - breathing space away from the bustle of the city and a short commute to work. He liked his home very much and can be seen in his straw hat doing yard work around the property on the weekends. He found the connection with nature to be relaxing and therapeutic for the soul.

He occupied the top floor and rented out the two lower apartments. Blessed with peaceful retired tenants who only migrated to Las Vegas during the comfortable months out of the year, Grissom had the place to himself most of the time. But there were no wild parties at Grissom's place. Quite on the contrary, he rarely invited people over. The only one who's ever actually been to Grissom's residence was Sara.

Grissom was occupied with setting the dining room table for two when a short rap on the door caught his attention. Hank, Grissom's canine companion, sprung up from his space in the corner of the room and jogged eagerly to the door to receive the visitor.

"It's open!" Grissom called across the room as he unloaded a hand full of utensils and napkins onto the table.

The knob turned and the door swung open.

"Do you always leave your door unlocked like this?" Greg said in disapproval as he appeared in the doorway. "With all the crime these days…"

"Hey Greg. Come in." Grissom greeted. "Relax, I knew it was you. I can see you on my surveillance monitor." He reminded.

As Greg took a few steps into the room, Hank flew into a frenzy of excitement. Without any warning, the tail waging, large, tri-colored brawny-necked boxer pounced onto Greg nearly knocking him over backwards. Hank had his two front paws on Greg's chest. Standing tall on its hind legs, Hank's wet leathery nose almost touched Greg's chin.

"Hank!! Down boy. Down. Heel!" Grissom shouted. He hurried over and pulled Hank off by the collar. A tongue dangling, drool dripping Hank flung himself off of Greg and stood obediently next to Grissom's feet.

Greg smoothed out his creased shirt and pretended like that didn't just scare the living daylights out of him. It was hard to disguise because his hands started trembling again. His frayed nerves always got the upper hand and the quakes became somewhat of a routine. As much as he tried to hide everything, the anxiety rendered Greg an extremely terrified and jumpy individual. Through his actions, his friends were well aware of it.

"Sorry about that." Grissom said. "Hank's just enthusiastic. We don't get company often."

"It's ok." Greg said timidly.

Grissom bent down towards Hank. "That is not how we treat guests." He scolded the dog humorously. Hank only cocked his head to one side, oblivious to what his master was saying.

Greg laughed wholeheartedly. It was a nice change to see Grissom so at ease and appear so – well, human – when he was out of the office. No one would ever figure Grissom to be the dog-talking type. Perhaps weekends had a way of transforming him into a completely different person.

Greg gave Hank a generous and forgiving rub on the top of the head before walking into Grissom's digs.

The front door opened into the living room. Grissom's home had somewhat of an old-fashioned antique feel to it. There was lot of mahogany and Georgian influences in the décor. Though not surprised, Greg was rather impressed by Grissom's taste in antiquity. He had expected Grissom's place to be filled to the ceiling with old books and papers – much like his office. But quite on the contrary, his home life was very organized and structured. There was a place for almost everything.

"Nice place you got here, Grissom." Greg said as he walked into the living room. His eyes couldn't help but wander around.

It was a medium size room with tall three windows facing the east. Each window was adorned with curtains and Venetian blinds. A Bordeaux-colored sofa set stood facing a wall unit containing a television and a DVD player. There was a large area rug on top of the wooden floorboards. A few magazines were tastefully strewn on an elegant coffee table. Off to the side of the room was a writing desk complete with multiple drawers and slots for papers. A laptop computer on the desk flashed a screen saver consisting of pictures of Hank.

Greg expected the place to reek of old books and moth balls but quite the opposite, there were no traces of staleness. However, there was an altogether familiar smell that circulated the room. It was a most unusual, yet highly recognizable scent. It was the soft aroma of cooked meat and cabbage. Greg knew that smell anywhere. Suddenly, his heart pounded with excitement.

"Uh, what's that smell?" Greg said while curiously sniffing the air.

"I'm surprised you couldn't tell. You of all people." Grissom said with a laugh. "It's mutton stew."

"No way!" Greg said.

"Your mother emailed me the recipe and I thought I'd give it a try." Grissom said. He went back to setting the table.

"So basically, I'm the guinea pig." Greg chortled. He took a seat on the sofa. Hank followed him inquisitively.

"I promised your mother I would do my best to look after you." Grissom called from the dining room. "So, here is my attempt at a meal. I used to be a pretty decent cook in my day. She tells me mutton stew is your favorite."

Greg found it rather awkward to have Grissom speak to him in such a jovial way. He was used to the stern, unmovable, all-work-and-no-play Grissom that he knew at the office. Something big must've influenced Grissom to turn over a new leaf. Greg guessed it was brought on as a result of the recent unfortunate chain of events.

He wasn't used to such treatment from anyone – especially not Grissom. He looked up to Grissom tremendously and applauded his intelligence. Aside from a few group gatherings, Greg never really hung out with Grissom before. This one-on-one leisure thing was very new to Greg. Though, he really wasn't sure how to act. He wondered if he should be his old quirky self.

Nonetheless, he was flattered that Grissom choose to sacrifice part of the weekend to invite him over for lunch. Greg realized that there could've been other things that Grissom could be doing instead of hosting lunch. He did find it slightly odd that Grissom only invited him. There had to be a reason.

"You know, you've become quite chummy with my mom, lately." Greg said.

"We keep in touch." Grissom said. "I really like email."

"Welcome to the 21st century." Greg congratulated in humor. "It took you a little while to catch on, but see, it's not so bad."

Hank's rubbery and damp black nose shook as he sniffed Greg's shoes and pant leg. When he finally decided that Greg neither posed a threat to him nor his owner, Hank jumped onto the sofa and made himself comfortable next to Greg. Hank lowered his head and placed his chin on Greg's lap.

"See, Hank likes you." Grissom said.

"Hank's a good dog." Greg replied and stroked the dog's neck.

"Well, most of the time. He could be very mischievous." Grissom chuckled.

A small sound emanated from the computer caught Grissom's attention. He went over and typed in something before closing the screen.

"Oh, excuse me. I had to reply to that. It was your mom. She just messaged me." Grissom explained. He went into the kitchen.

"You mean as in _instant messaging_?" Greg said in an astonished tone.

"Yes." Grissom said.

"She didn't tell me you guys were IM-ing." Greg suddenly felt left out.

"It's quicker than email." Grissom said.

Greg didn't know whether to laugh or be proud of Grissom finally being up to speed on the world of technology. He was still a bit stunned at the fact that his mother and Grissom were so amicable towards each other. It was established earlier as a strictly platonic relationship. And Greg believed it for the most part. He couldn't pick his mother's friends. It wasn't in his place to do that. If she wished to befriend Grissom, she had every right in doing so. In Greg's heart, he was glad it was Grissom.

"Food's on. I hope you're hungry. Your mother is worried that you're too thin and not eating enough." Grissom said. He brought over the pot containing the stew using two strawberry-colored pot holders and set it on a round coaster made of cork.

"My mom always says that. It's her motto." Greg got up and made his way to the table. He watched Grissom spoon helpings onto soup bowls with a ladle.

Hank paced vibrantly with animation between Grissom and Greg in hopes of scoring a few morsels of meat. He whimpered and panted excitedly. His pleading dark brown eyes looked up at Grissom.

"Be patient. You'll get yours, Hank." Grissom said.

Greg took a seat at the table. His eyes wandered around the room.

"What, Greg? You look like you have something to ask."

"I was just wondering…where do you keep the bugs?" Greg asked. "You have a big collection in your office. I was thinking your house must be full of that stuff."

"Not what you expected to see, huh?" Grissom spooned a few scoops of stew into Hank's bowl.

"Not many people have seen your place." Greg said. "They only know what they see in the office."

"I like to be thought of as an average guy with outlets. I'm not all about work." Grissom set Hank's bowl down.

Somehow, Greg found that last statement ironic. As far as Greg could remember, Grissom was always about work. Grissom was a workaholic. He was the first one to arrive and the last one to leave at the end of the shift. There were nights where he lingered in the office until morning. Perhaps Grissom finally found a reason to loosen up.

"The bugs are in the library." Grissom said. "I'll show you later if you like. But for now, dig in." He invited.

Like a true connoisseur, Greg took his time with his first taste. He squished a spoonful of stew around his mouth to experience the full effect of the flavors. He chewed slowly and swallowed while allowing his taste buds to savor each ingredient and spice to the fullest. Grissom watched carefully for Greg's verdict.

"It's good!" Greg finally flashed a smile. He relieved Grissom of the suspense. "You know, I'm really impressed. It tastes pretty good."

"Well, Ingrid is a great teacher." Grissom said humbly. He picked up his utensils and started eating.

Greg did not hold back in devouring his food. A real meal was hard to come by and he took it readily. His hunger showed and Grissom was pleased to see Greg with such a healthy appetite. Greg dabbled at ease touching on array of subjects – including his favorite, numismatics. He tried to steer away from work-related areas but it was hard to avoid sometimes.

Hank finished his portion of stew and was now licking his chops in satisfaction. He left his empty dog bowl and crawled under the table. Hank lay sprawled in a lazy manner leaning on top of Greg's shoes. The sixty-five pound boxer didn't think Greg would mind.

"Uh, I think Hank approves of your cooking." Greg said as he took a glimpse of Hank's empty bowl. "He's found a comfortable place to digest. He's lying on my feet."

Grissom lifted the table cloth and found Hank playing with Greg's shoe laces. Hank gave his owner an innocent stare.

After generously soaking up stew sauce with a slice of Italian bread, Greg sunk his teeth into it and chewed feverishly. Greg marveled at the very thought of how envious Hodges would be if he should ever find out about this get-together. He had the bragging rights and the idea did tickle his brain but he decided to be humble about it.

Once the food was depleted, Greg leaned back with a satisfied sigh. He praised and thanked Grissom for the fabulous meal once again. Grissom, in turn, modestly thanked Greg for being able to join him for this little lunch.

Greg diverted his attention to a remarkably beautiful mahogany round game table with a leather top and golden-inlay, which was placed near the exit to the veranda. Brass lions clenching rings in its mouth served as drawer pulls. About twenty-four inches in diameter, the table stood on a single stilt, which separated into four small legs at the bottom. Two equally elegant matching chairs stood facing each other proudly like refined old ladies. On the table was a black and tan marble chess set with a black chess board.

"You once said you were the captain of your high school chess team." Grissom said when he noticed Greg looking at the chess set.

"Yea, we held the national title." Greg said reminiscing of old times. "Champions for four years in a row. It was like taking candy from a baby."

"Would you like to see if you still got it in you?" Grissom challenged. "Champ." He added in a near mocking tone.

"Do I still got it? That's an understatement." Greg joked boldly. "In fact, I'm on top of my game right now."

"Alright then. Let's see what you got, hot shot." Grissom got up and motioned for Greg to follow him to a game of chess.

"You are SO on." Greg huffed. He walked over to the table.

"Do you want dark or light?" Grissom asked.

"Light." Greg answered as he took a seat. "You know, we had a name for our team."

"What's that?"

"Greg's Gambits."

"Catchy." Grissom said amusingly and hospitably allowed Greg to make the first move.

Greg had lost some of his bouncy attitude and impish cheerfulness as a result of his recent misfortunes. He was no longer the optimistic, exuberant, highly energetic individual that everyone was used to. He tried very hard to resume his past status as a smart but nutty office clown but it just wasn't the same. Greg became withdrawn and passive like as if he didn't have a taste for being the chirpy one anymore. Getting shot took away more than just his peace of mind. It robbed him of his character.

Underneath the spiteful audacity, Greg was truly touched that Grissom cared. His own father wouldn't have cared half as much. While growing up, Greg never had many people to look up to. There was Superman, but that was kind of silly and didn't really count. He denied his loneliness and found ways to replace the need for friends and a father figure. Things changed when he joined the crime lab.

In the old lab days, Greg often hid the hurt under his eccentricity. There was no doubt in the minds of his colleagues that, although he had an unusual sense of humor, he proved to be extremely efficient in getting things done. But Greg always felt the need to impress. He wasn't aiming to move mountains. He just wanted to be liked.

Greg idolized Grissom and had immense respect for him and his work. For the first time in his life, he had a role model. He could never bring himself to admitting his sentiment to the one person who never gave up on him. If Grissom were to cast him aside now, he would probably never recover from the blow. Grissom was the closest thing to a father he will ever have.

"Greg, there's a specific reason why I invited you over." Grissom said midway through the game. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Sure." Greg looked quizzically at Grissom. Suddenly, his mind was no longer pondering the next strategic move. Greg figured it had to be something big if he couldn't tell whatever it was during working hours. The suspense left Greg's weak heart pounding so furiously that he could hear it in his ears.

"It's about what's going on with you at work." Grissom said. "You're going to have to talk about it sooner or later."

Greg turned his eyes away and focused at a rook piece on B4 on the chessboard. "I was hoping we wouldn't have to go into that."

"I know everything that goes on in my lab." Grissom said. "I hope you won't have any bitter feelings towards your friends. They did not betray you. They were only following orders."

Greg remained silent.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?" Grissom asked patiently.

"I wish I knew." Greg's voice cracked. He sounded truly distressed. "It – it's like I've become a different person after getting shot." He seemed to have something else to say but he hesitated.

"Look, I'm talking to you as a friend. Whatever we discuss stays within this room. You have my word." Grissom said. "The only one you gotta worry about is Hank. He's not good at keeping secrets." He added with a laugh to ease the tension.

Greg couldn't help but chuckle. He eyed Hank, who was now lying on the floor dozing off sporadically.

"Everyone's been telling me I should see Murphy. But I just can't. I can't sit there and tell a complete stranger my story. It's too weird." Greg said.

"Well then, talk to me Greg." Grissom offered.

Greg gave a short troubled sigh. He put his forefinger on a chess piece and traced the rim of the bishop's miter. He didn't know where to start or how far to take things.

"Why don't we put this game on hold for a little while?" Grissom suggested. "It's a beautiful day. Let's go out onto the veranda. Some fresh air will be good for both of us."

Greg got up and followed Grissom through the sliding doors that led out onto the veranda.

The desert sun was producing a warm and pleasant afternoon. There was a light breeze coming from the north. From the veranda, they had a fantastic airy view of the mountains. In the distance, they could see the shiny roofs of houses and a highway dotted with moving cars. The condominium was built on the top of a slope and overlooked the rest of the town. Greg could see why Grissom chose this prime piece of real estate.

Greg stood there with his hands tightly grasped on the floral wrought iron railing. He raised his face to meet the sun's warm rays. Closing his eyes, he inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. It felt really good and his lungs thanked him.

"Ever feel like things are so bad that you don't want to deal with them anymore? You know, how easy it'd be to put an end to everything?" Greg's voice was calm and steady. Still with eyes closed, he hoped Grissom would understand his deepest, darkest thought and be cool about it.

"How do you mean?" Grissom said carefully. He was surprised by Greg's sudden raw choice of words. Greg did a great job at concealing his feelings. He seemed more or less fine one minute and when brought to that dark place, he became someone else.

"It's not a crime to want the pain and torment to stop." Greg opened his eyes. Grissom could've sworn he saw tears brewing in Greg's hazel eyes.

"You have every right to feel displaced." Grissom said gently.

"This is a nice view." Greg sucked the tears back in and changed the subject. "You like high places. Yea, well me too. You can almost see the strip from here." He turned his head to the left and squinted into the distance.

"Greg, where are we going with this conversation?" Grissom asked.

"It's complicated." Greg sighed after a pause.

"What is?" Grissom pressed.

"My life." Greg answered with a laugh. "Do you really want to hear me bitch about my problems?"

"Well, whatever I can do to help." Grissom said.

"Look, I'm sorry about what happened at the correctional facility. I really don't know what came over me. When I saw him, I just froze and my mind played back all the details." Greg said. "I get these images floating in my head."

"What are in these images?" Grissom said.

"Getting shot." Greg said. "It plays over and over like some sort of sick movie." He paused. "The man in the hooded sweatshirt, the gun pointed at me, the flicker of light from the barrel as he pulls the trigger, the bullet hitting me in the chest, then me falling to the ground."

Grissom noticed Greg involuntarily rub the old wound on his chest.

"What triggers these images?" Grissom asked.

"I don't know. But when it happens, I get all tensed up and my ability to move and speak goes out the window." Greg looked down and spotted a speckled cat running across the street. "Something tells me that I'm going crazy."

"It sure feels like it, but you're not going crazy. You've been traumatized." Grissom said.

"I can't stop shaking." Greg admitted. "Most of the time, it's my hands. When it gets really bad, it's my whole body. And you know what the worst part is? The fear. I don't know how to get over the fear."

"I understand." Grissom said.

"No, I don't think you do." Greg replied sincerely. "You don't know what it's like to be in constant fear all the time – thinkin' that someone out there could've killed you. People keep telling me that the bad guy's put away and I have nothing to worry about so I should just forget about it and go on with life as if it never happened. It's not as simple as that. He may be locked up but he lives inside my head."

"You're right, maybe I don't completely understand." Grissom decided. "But I would really like to." He added.

"Sometimes," Greg began but hesitated before continuing. "Sometimes, I feel like the fear is eating me alive. I question my sanity all the time. I'm afraid that one day, I won't be able to handle it anymore and I'll – I'll lose it."

"You won't. I won't let that happen." Grissom said.

"The pills help a little." Greg said. "But it'll go only so far. I – I'm tired of being scared. I just want it all to go away. I would like to convince myself that things will go back to the way it used to be, but then I'd only be lying to myself. Nothing's gonna be the same."

Greg sighed deeply and watched a triangular formation of honking wild geese fly overhead. "Everyone in the office expects me to be as this chipper, upbeat, smart aleck CSI rookie who always has a joke up his sleeve. I don't think I can be that person anymore. A lot has changed. I have a lot going on in my head."

A short pause.

"When I get into my dark place, it's really hard to find a way out. I feel everything - the emotions, the pain, everything comes out at the same time. It is very bad. I have no sense of what's real when that happens. All I want at that moment is relief." Greg spoke. Grissom detected a sense of desperateness in Greg's voice.

"Greg, are you having suicidal thoughts?" Grissom finally asked his question. Perhaps the seriousness in Grissom's voice scared Greg.

"I'm not saying I would actually do it, but sometimes, it seems like a solution." Greg muttered.

A chill ran down Grissom's spine as the words echoed in his head. He knew Greg had post traumatic issues but he had no idea it was this deep. His heart pounded madly but he managed to keep his cool appearance. The emptiness in Greg's tone made him increasingly concerned. It was out of Greg's character to be saying such things. On the other hand, he was glad that Greg was reaching out to him before he made any foolish mistakes.

"It's the hopelessness in me speaking." Greg said.

"Do you have these thoughts a lot?" Grissom pried.

"No." Greg answered. "It pops into my head when things get bad. It's a desperate measure – an easy way out, I guess."

"Suicide is hardly the solution to anything." Grissom said.

"Probably not." Greg muttered. "Grissom, please don't think of me as some psycho freak." He rushed. "I don't easily admit my problems to anyone – not even to mom. You're the only person I've ever talked to about this. If this should ever get out, what would people think?!"

"Calm down, Greg. It's ok. This conversation is confidential." Grissom interrupted. "I'm glad we're having this talk."

Greg was stunned to see how incredibly mellow Grissom appeared. This made it that much easier for Greg to open up. He never realized how much he needed to talk until now. Keeping these sorts of things to himself was like sharpening a knife. He was thankful for Grissom's persistence.

"I know I'm messed up but I'm not a psychotic nut job." Greg said.

"I didn't say you were." Grissom said. "Suicide is a pretty serious subject." He wondered how far Greg would go if he was pushed to it.

"Just because I have a few occasional thoughts about suicide, it doesn't mean that I would do it." Greg said hoping to sound convincing enough. He looked at Grissom, who was reading into his eyes. "I – I'm not just saying all this to get attention." Greg stammered.

"No, I don't think you are. And I believe every word you say." Grissom said. He softened up. "You took a big step today, Greg, by telling me what's going on. Getting all this out into the open was very difficult for you. I'm proud of you for doing that. This is definitely a start."

The words comforted Greg and made him feel better. He was glad Grissom was receptive to what he had to say.

"Whenever you have these bad thoughts, I want you to talk to me. Doesn't matter what time of the day it is. If you need to talk – about anything. You have my number. Call me." Grissom instructed. "Ok?"

Glassy eyed, Greg looked at Grissom. He was touched by Grissom's kindness. "I don't wanna inconvenience you though." Greg said softly.

"How could you think it to be an inconvenience? I'm here for my team. I'm here for you." Grissom said. "You're gonna be ok." He put a hand on Greg's shoulder.

Greg managed a short smile.

"Ok, how about we finish that chess game? Come on, I'm not going to let you off that easy. Champ." Grissom joked wholeheartedly as he motioned for Greg to follow him inside.

"Grissom?" Greg called from behind.

Grissom turned around to find Greg's bony frame standing a few feet away.

"Just thanks." Greg said with his fists in his pants pockets.

Grissom smiled and they stepped through the sliding doors.

Grissom had a way of always appearing cool and composed in all situations. He believed that for every problem, there was a plausible solution. His work taught him to trust his instincts and go with gut feelings. At this moment, his gut was full of mixed emotions, which revolved around what should be done about the youngest member of his team. He couldn't possibly follow Greg around all the time to make sure he didn't do something regretful. Greg contemplating suicide was an extreme that Grissom was not prepared for.

Greg had become exceedingly frightened and nervous. Trust seemed to be a big issue with Greg these days and Grissom saw this clearly. Grissom felt Greg did in fact trust him, otherwise he would not have told him anything at all. For this, he felt relieved.

One thing was for sure, Grissom was not going to sit by and watch Greg self-destruct. Grissom needed to keep a watchful eye on him. He cared too much to let Greg slip through his fingers…again.

End of Chapter 10

Author's Note: Thanks for reading!! Amidst all the seriousness and drama, I thought it'd be fun to give Hank a brief moment in the spotlight. Don't forget to sign a review!


	11. A Leap of Freedom

Chapter 11: A Leap of Freedom

Greg trotted out of the trace analysis lab and down the hall with an important piece of paper in his hand. He sped through the corridor nearly knocking over the night janitor's mop station. He whizzed past a scatter of bewildered lab technicians and spewed apologies as he ran passed them. He came to a screeching halt at the end of the next corridor. The rubber soles of his shoes made a super loud squeak. Catherine, Nick, and Warrick, who were standing in front of the doorway to the lounge, quickly turned around and saw Greg running at full speed towards them.

"Hey guys!" Greg called excitedly. Taking in deep breaths of oxygen as he came to a stop in front of his team, he wanted to reveal his findings but his lost of breath only allowed him to merely wave the piece of paper at them.

"Whoa, Greg. What's the big rush?" Nick said.

"Gimme a second." Greg panted. He bent over and had his hands on his knees. "I just – I just need a moment to – to catch my breath." He gasped.

"Are you alright?" Catherine asked when Greg's breath came in wheezes.

"Greg, you sound horrible." Warrick said observantly.

"Whew! After my lung collapsed, they don't work as well as they used to." Greg complained. Hearing these words only increased Catherine's sympathy for him.

"All the more reason for you NOT to run up a storm like that." Nick said.

"Ok, why don't you just breathe? There ya go. Take your time." Catherine said in a serene voice as she patted Greg gently on the back. She didn't seem worried. She only wanted him to feel better.

Greg straightened up and the color came back into his cheeks. A harsh cough caused him to wince. He felt the need to rub his chest and he did so regardless of what everyone thought.

"What's gotten you all worked up?" Warrick said to Greg.

"I processed the victim's stomach contents." Greg swallowed as he presented his analysis report. "I found exceedingly high concentration levels of ethylene oxide, which is an industrial chemical used as an intermediate in the production of ethylene glycerol. It's the same compound commonly known for its use as an automotive coolant." Rocking on his heels, he handed the paper to Catherine.

"Antifreeze?" Nick scratched his head. "So, he chugged down a bottle of antifreeze?"

"Yes, but he didn't die via antifreeze." Greg smiled. "The degree of erosion in the vic's throat and esophagus suggests the antifreeze was added post mortem. The cause of death is still asphyxiation."

"Why would anyone kill a guy, and then pour antifreeze down the dead man's throat?" Catherine said in a perplexed tone.

"I don't know about that, but I _do_ know who has access to antifreeze. The vic's nephew worked at a chop shop." Warrick recalled as he stood with arms folded across his chest.

"Ok, let's start there." Catherine said and turned to Greg. "Great job, Greg."

A loud noise erupted somewhere down the hall. A lab assistant, who was handling a tray of freshly cleaned beakers, had accidentally dropped one onto the floor. The crash of the broken glass echoed between the walls, sounding similar to a gun being fired.

The sound immediately triggered an awful reaction in Greg's brain. Consumed with sudden excruciating fear, he gave a sharp scream and spun around to face the source of the noise. His heartbeat slammed against his chest making it very difficult to breathe. The color disappeared from his cheeks and his big frightened eyes saw nothing but terror. His whole body was shaking so badly that he could hardly stand anymore. His legs were rubbery and needed to be relieved of their purpose of holding him up. With his back against the wall, he slid down to a seated position on the floor.

"Greg?" Warrick called. But Greg couldn't hear anything except the loud drumming of his heart.

"Hey, buddy." Nick knelt down to meet Greg at eye level. Greg nearly flew into mad hysterics when Nick reached out to touch him.

"NO!!!!!" Greg sobbed and threw his arms up in a defensive mode to shield himself from being attacked. "DON'T HURT ME!" He cried oblivious to his surroundings.

Nick withdrew his hand at once and exchanged worried glances with the others. Greg was sitting there with his knees drawn up to his chest trembling something fierce. This alarming display of hysteria stunned Catherine, Warrick, and Nick. They knew their friend had problems but they had no idea things were this bad.

A few of the night shift lab technicians poked their heads out of their offices to see what the commotion was about.

"It's ok. Everything's under control." Warrick said to them as they stared and whispered amongst themselves at the sight of Greg sitting on the hall floor. "Just a little mishap…but it's all under control now. Nothing more to see here." He protected Greg from exposure.

The crowd hesitantly dispersed as Warrick kept reassuring them that everything was fine.

"Sorry!" Greg sobbed out of humility when he realized what he had said. He buried his face into his hands and was hyperventilating like he'd just witnessed something very frightful. "I'm sorry!!" He blubbered while heaving loud uncontrollable sobs.

"Greg," Catherine said tenderly. "Greg, it's ok." Her voice was soft and gentle.

"I'm sorry. I dunno why - " Greg cried. He couldn't stop apologizing. It was difficult to make eye contact with his friends. The petrified look on his boyish tear-stained face was more than his friends could bear.

"Shhh, Greg. It's ok." Catherine repeated. Sitting on her heels, she pulled him into a comforting hug. Greg had no choice but to accept. Besides, he really needed a hug right then.

Greg tried desperately to settle his nerves in Catherine's arms as Nick and Warrick watched helplessly. Catherine's eyes met Nick and Warrick and they read each other's troubled thoughts. Greg didn't release himself from Catherine's embrace. In fact, he held on tighter, afraid of letting go. The shakes in his body were still so intense that he needed something to steady them. A few loose heart-wrenching sobs passed his lips. Bewildered, Nick and Warrick saw a side of Greg that they were not used to.

Nick's fiery personality often flared when he saw someone close to home victimized by an unthinkable crime, especially when it came to Greg. Through the years, Nick had unofficially adopted Greg into his family. Their makeshift brotherhood relationship was indeed a strong one. It hurt Nick a great deal knowing that he wasn't there to protect Greg when he needed it the most. No one really knew just how incredibly loyal and committed Nick could be when it came to someone he cared so much about. Greg, of all people, was not someone anyone should mess with. They'd have to answer to Nick if that should ever happen. It outraged Nick to see Greg's spirit deteriorate yet at the same time, it truly broke his heart.

Warrick, on the other hand, had all the compassion in the world but he believed there was a just and legit way of doing everything. He was more "by the book" than Nick will ever be. Warrick trusted the system for the most part. And like Nick, he was extremely concerned for Greg's well-being.

Catherine stroked the back of Greg's head in a calming manner. She always had a habit of treating Greg like he was much younger than his actual age. Perhaps motherhood changed her outlook on things. Or perhaps it was her guilty feelings stemming from the lab explosion several years ago, which left Greg severely injured. Her negligence and carelessness caused it.

"Greg, are you alright?! You're trembling." Catherine gasped as Greg's body rattled in her arms. "Something's wrong." She looked at the guys for support but apparently, the guys didn't seem the least bit surprised.

"I'm ok." Greg blubbered as he ended the embrace. He brushed off the tears and mucus from his face with the front and back of his hands. He then wiped it off on his jeans – something his mother would've scolded him about. His hands were shaking like he'd forgotten his gloves on the coldest day of the year. There was no use in trying to hide the intense way his hands shook.

It was a strange and rather humorous sight. Four of the best CSI's in all of Clark County were sitting on the floor in the middle of the hallway of the crime lab, like a bunch of school kids at a weird indoor picnic. Greg finally looked up to his friends. He was beyond embarrassment. There were no more excuses he could think of to justify what happened. Greg opened his mouth to say something but Nick interrupted him.

"I know what you're gonna say. You don't have to apologize for anything." Nick said. "We understand."

"It was just a beaker – a friggin' beaker." Greg mumbled and tried to laugh but the terror hadn't completely left his voice yet.

"Yea, we know what it sounded like but it was just a beaker. That's all it was." Warrick said.

Greg ran a nervous hand through his hair. At that point, he didn't want to talk about it. He just wanted to disappear from the humiliation. This episode of hysteria will be the new gossip around the water cooler. It wouldn't be long before the whole day and night shift know about this one.

"Let's get off the floor. I think we're keeping Milton, the night janitor, from doing his job. He still hasn't done the floors on this side yet." Nick said as he stood up. He dusted his pants.

Greg's legs were still wobbly. The last thing he wanted was for his knees to buckle under him and cause another scene in the hall. Nick must've read his mind when he reached out to help him up.

"We'll go in the lounge." Catherine said.

Greg hoped the bagginess of his jeans concealed the unsteady twitching of his legs when he commanded them to walk. They filed into the empty lounge a few paces away.

"Take a seat." Warrick instructed Greg to sit. Greg willingly slid onto one of the chairs. All the panic and excitement left him weak and faint.

"You want some water? Here, I'll get it for you." Catherine opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle of water for Greg.

They watched attentively as Greg fumbled with the cap on the bottle. He took a few gulps of water and placed the bottle back on the table.

"You feel better?" Catherine asked.

"Yea, thanks." Greg replied. "We should get back to work." He added out of the blue. Changing the subject somehow became his specialty.

"We should, but maybe _you_ should go home." Catherine recommended.

"No!" Greg said a little too quickly. "I'm fine, really. There are a million things to process. You guys'll never finish. I'm about as efficient as it comes."

"We can manage. If you don't feel well, you should take the rest of the night off. I'm sure Grissom will understand." Warrick said.

Grissom. Greg had forgotten about Grissom.

"And what am I going to tell him? That I freaked out over the drop of a stupid beaker?" Greg fired back. He softened up, "I know you all mean well."

"We're worried about you." Warrick said. "Between Catherine, Nick and me, there's nothing we can't handle. Things are hectic in your absence, I won't lie about that. But we find a way to get through it. The most important thing is for you to be a hundred percent."

"I **am** a hundred percent." Greg snapped. After hearing the words pass his lips, he realized just how juvenile he sounded. "Ok fine, maybe ninety percent." He added sheepishly.

"I'll say." Warrick replied. Nick and Catherine didn't know whether to laugh or be serious.

"I just need a few minutes to get my act together." Greg pleaded. "You guys can go."

"Are you sure you'll be alright then?" Catherine eyed suspiciously.

"Yea." Greg lied.

If only they knew the truth. Greg was not alright. In fact, things were getting worse by the day. The shakes became the least of his problems. Nightmares maintained their dominance over Greg's dream world. The horrors of being hunted down enveloped his mind and plagued him when he slept. Sometimes he woke up drenched in a cold sweat and other times he woke up in tears. It was chipping away at his soul piece by piece.

The constant sensation of fear followed him everywhere. Even the tiniest things set him off the deep end. He grew weary of being tense all the time. He often jumped at sudden noises, unexpected touches, and things as simple as someone calling his name.

Greg managed to swallow all of that down and take it like a man. He thought he could handle the shakes and the nightmares. But he never expected things to escalate further. The little episode that happened in the hallway was something he never anticipated. It was like his mind was transported into a place where monsters lurked and shadowed his every move. He didn't see Nick or Warrick or Catherine. He only saw the sharp claws that reached out to harm him.

It was the type of stuff he saw in his nightmares. He questioned his sanity even more. The thought of not being able to differentiate a dream from reality scared him.

"I'll be ok." Greg insisted.

"Take as much time as you need." Warrick said.

"Holler if you need anything." Catherine added.

"We're here for you, Greg." Nick said.

"Ok." Greg replied. He smiled to indicate he was feeling better now.

Catherine, Warrick, and Nick left the lounge and went back to work. Somehow, Greg knew they were going to whisper behind his back. It won't be long before Grissom hears about his downward spiral.

There was chaos in his mind. Greg didn't know what to do anymore. He sat in the lounge for the next ten minutes staring at the bottle of water in front of him. He watched the occasional bubble rise and pop when it reached the surface. It amazed him how much he had in common with that little bubble. Like the bubble, Greg was going to pop at some point. Perhaps that had already happened and he needed to take the next step…..

Two Hours Later:

The roar of a 747 twin jet engine thundered overhead as it headed into McCarran International Airport. Greg looked up into the star-studded charcoal night sky and saw the blinking red and green lights outlining the wings of the aircraft. It was US Airways coming in for a landing. His eyes and head followed the plane as it soared over him.

Surprisingly enough, it was a calm night with a swirl of cool air. The west winds have died down. There were patches of thinning clouds that slowly dragged across the sky. Greg felt the brisk air penetrate though the weaves of his long sleeved shirt. He didn't mind the coldness because it made him feel like he was still alive.

It was the perfect place. No one knew about it nor did he ever advertise it to anyone. The seclusion and stillness allowed him to think, clear his mind, and most of all - hide. He had the whole place to himself. It belonged to _him_.

The minty air cleared his nostrils and moistened his throat as he inhaled deeply. He stared into the sparkling Las Vegas skyline. The neon lights appeared to be battling with Mother Nature's hold on night. Greg decided that he favored the darkness of the night. Darkness often had a way of masking the truth. But he couldn't hide in the shadows forever. He knew things have changed. There was no denying the fact that things were getting serious.

He wanted to be so strong and brave. Nothing was supposed to get in the way of his career and his group of friends. He worked hard and became a CSI. His team accepted him and he finally belonged somewhere. Life was getting good for a change. All it took was one lousy mistake to screw things up.

Perhaps everyone questioned his ability now. They probably wondered if he was even reliable enough for the job. He let everyone down. His life felt empty and meaningless. He couldn't decide whether to hate himself indefinitely or to give himself yet another chance. The choice should be clear. It shouldn't take him this long to figure out. He closed his eyes and faced upwards into the sky yearning for some peace in his heart.

Greg's troubled mind wanted to be free. He was at the end of his rope. Maybe there was really only _one_ solution to solving everything.

(God, what should I do?) He prayed desperately. With eyes still closed, he allowed the tears to run down his face. He never felt so lost and helpless in all his life.

In answer to his question, a comforting slight breeze kissed his cheeks. He opened his eyes and wiped the tears away. Another airliner zoomed overhead. This time, it was Delta. Greg spotted the red triangle logo imprinted on the tail of the plane. He watched it disappear into McCarran.

There was a short wall about four feet in height surrounding the area. There was a slab made of bumpy rocks and stone on top of the wall. Greg pulled himself on top of the wall and sat with his legs dangling off the side. Well, it wasn't exactly the most comfortable place to sit but he wouldn't trade in the location for anything.

Greg's gaze turned upon his cell phone that stood a few inches away from where he sat. He wished with all his might that it would ring. Maybe someone would talk him out of what he was about to do. But on the contrary, the evil phone remained silent. No one cared. More tears filled his eyes.

Greg grabbed the phone in anguish. He wanted to hurl it as far as his arm would allow him to throw it. But something stopped him. A voice inside his head told him to stop. He hesitated several times before he finally opened the phone and pressed the call button.

* * *

Grissom was in his office going over a report with Brass when his cell phone started ringing. It had been ringing all night. He wanted to let it go to voice mail and was about to do so when he realized it could be Ecklie calling. He needed to speak to Ecklie about the department's budget. And Ecklie was so hard to get on the phone these days.

Without seeing whose name popped up on the caller ID, he picked up the phone with a weary "hello?"

"Grissom? It's me." Greg said reluctantly after a pause. Grissom detected certain hollowness in the young man's tone.

Grissom looked at Brass, who was waiting patiently for him to get off the phone.

"Is this a good time?" Greg asked timidly. He tried so hard to appear unmoved but his voice faltered.

"Er, Brass, I need to take this call." Grissom whispered lowly to Brass as he covered the mouthpiece. Brass took the hint. He mumbled something about a coffee break, gathered a few folders and left the room.

"Greg? Are you alright?" Grissom said as soon as he was alone. He wondered why Greg had to call him on the cell especially since they were in the same building. Greg could've easily just found him in his office and knocked on the door.

"You said I could call you anytime." Greg began. "But if you're busy…"

"No, I have plenty of time. What is it, Greg? Did you want to talk about something?" Grissom said.

There was a pause.

"Maybe this was a bad idea. I – I shouldn't have called." Greg retreated into cowardice.

"Wait! Don't hang up!" Grissom exclaimed. "Don't hang up." He repeated in a more composed tone.

Greg cradled the phone to his ear. He tried with all his might to hold in his sorrow, but he failed. His chin quivered and the salty lump in his throat grew thicker.

"I just want you to know that I'm sorry, Grissom." Greg said. "I'M SORRY FOR _EVERYTHING_. I'M SORRY!!" He stifled the sobs but it was pretty evident that he was crying. He never intended to bawl like this. In fact, he was supposed to be strong when he spoke to Grissom.

"Greg…." Grissom said.

"My heart is filled with so much pain. I can't – I can't do this anymore." Greg cut in. Upon those words, the tears showed no mercy and poured out of his eyes at full blast. He didn't care what Grissom thought of him because in a few minutes, it was all going to be over.

"Greg? Where are you?" Grissom's heart skipped a beat. He suddenly grew serious. The horrible sound of the word "suicide" echoed in his brain.

(Damn shit! He's really gonna do it.) Grissom thought wildly. He sprang out of his seat and stumbled into the hall, not sure which way to go.

"I'm tired, Grissom. I'm so tired of it all." Greg said with conviction.

"Where are you, Greg?" Grissom demanded.

Greg refused to answer. He bit his lip to hold in the sobs but it was useless.

"I can help you." Grissom quickened his pace down the hall. He caught the elevator.

"Thank you for all you've done for me. Please don't think that I'm ungrateful." Greg swallowed.

"Look, you're hurting right now and I understand. We can get through this together. There are other ways." Grissom offered. He had to keep Greg on the line.

"I don't know about that." Greg said with skepticism.

"There's a reason why you picked up the phone and called me, right?" Grissom pointed out.

"It's because I'm a coward."

"No, it's because somewhere in your heart, there is still a little bit of hope."

Greg had given up battling his uncontrollable tears. He allowed them to flow down his face freely.

"Maybe I called you because I know mom wouldn't understand." Greg wept. He paused before speaking again. "There are so many things, Grissom."

"I'm listening. You can tell me." Grissom sprinted out as soon as the elevator opened into the lobby. He pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the street.

Greg heaved a troubled sigh. "Maybe it's best this way – for all of us."

Something in Greg's voice scared Grissom.

"Greg, tell me where you are." Grissom begged.

There was a soft rumble of an airplane flying overhead. Slightly distracted, Grissom looked up into the sky and watched the plane pass. With the phone still cupped to his ear, he suddenly knew where Greg was.

"It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore." Greg said. "I don't want to feel anything. I want to be numb."

"Yes, it does matter." Grissom ran back into the building. "Everything matters. _You matter_, Greg." He had no patience for the elevator so he opted for the stairs.

"If only you knew." Greg said softly.

"Try me. Let me understand everything about you." Grissom huffed as he climbed the stairs two steps at a time. He had to keep Greg talking.

"You've always looked out for me." Greg began. "It was you that made me who I am. I wanted to turn out just like you."

"There is still time for that." Grissom reached the third floor and continued to climb upwards. "I never gave up on you. You shouldn't give up either."

"I know you had high hopes for me or you wouldn't have given me so many chances. All I can say now is that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I turned out to be a failure."

"You're not a failure." The stress in Grissom's voice was starting to show. He was breaking a sweat but he didn't care. A life was in his hands – Greg's life. "Believe me when I say you're not a failure. You've got a successful track record. I mean, sure, you've made a few mistakes here and there but we all make mistakes. It's what makes us human."

Greg was silent.

"You've made a difference in people's lives. It's because of you that they have closure and justice." Grissom said as he reached the sixth floor. He stopped for a second to catch his breath before continuing.

"Things have changed. I changed." Greg said. "I'm not the same Greg that you know."

Grissom reached for the handle of the door leading to the roof of the crime lab building. He stepped out onto the roof and quickly surveyed the area. In a dark corner on the east side, he noticed a figure sitting dangerously close to the ledge. The figure was slouched over and had his back facing Grissom.

As Grissom walked closer, he was able to see that Greg appeared to be crying. He saw Greg remove the phone from his ear and held it in his hand, hesitating on whether or not he should cut the connection. Witnessing such grief, Grissom's heart sank.

"Greg?" Grissom called gently. "You don't have to do this."

Slightly startled, Greg looked over his shoulder and found Grissom standing about six feet away.

"Grissom!" Greg was surprised yet glad that Grissom was there. "How'd you find me?"

"The sound of airplanes." Grissom gestured to the sky with his cell phone. "And you said you liked high places."

"Oh." Greg said. "It's very like you to figure these things out."

"No, I just pay attention." Grissom said. He inched his way closer to where Greg was sitting.

Greg turned back and closed his cell phone. With glassy eyes, he stared into the distance.

"You _really_ didn't come here for the views, huh?" Grissom asked after a few seconds of silence. He looked into the twinkling skyline.

Greg reluctantly shook his head.

"Were you planning on doing a Superman?" Grissom hinted as he took a look over the edge. "Twelve stories. It's a long way down."

"Superman was my hero. When I was five, I used to tie a blanket around my neck and pretend it was a cape. I ran around the living room and bounced off the sofas. Annoyed the heck out of my mom." Greg said. "Pretty silly, huh?"

"Not at all. Kids do those things."

"I didn't have many people to look up to when I was growing up. Superman was it." Greg said. "Well, until you came along."

"I've never had the honor of being compared to Superman." Grissom said.

Greg's eyes moistened. "Did you know that when I got shot, my father never once asked how I was?"

"No, I didn't know."

"I – I wanted to test him. See if he'll come to my funeral." Greg said. "I can do it, you know." He added to ensure that he had the guts to pull it off.

"Oh, I don't doubt that. I know you can do it, if you really wanted to." Grissom said.

"I just want to make him sorry for all the times he hurt me. All the chances I gave him. All the excuses I made for him." Greg said angrily. For the first time in his life, he was angry at his father.

"Greg, I'm sorry your father neglected you. It must've been hard."

"So much for _family_, huh?" Greg said through clenched teeth.

"I wouldn't say everything is completely lost. You have your mother. And you have us. You should know by now that we're more than a team. We've gotten into each other's lives. We've reached out to each other. Humans are a strange species – we often allow ourselves to get attached to things." Grissom realized he finally spoke the words from his heart. "_We_ are your family."

Greg was taken back by the words. He looked at Grissom with his puffy bloodshot eyes.

"That's gotta count. There are people who care about you very much. I care about you." Grissom confessed.

"You have no idea what it's like to live in fear." Greg said with a faltering voice. "I'm scared all the time. My nerves are completely shot. I can't shake away the nightmares. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder everywhere I go. I don't want to live like this. There's got to be a better place – somewhere…" He looked out into the horizon.

"Sometimes it seems like there's no end to the pain." Grissom said. "But I promise you, things'll get better Greg. They will."

"Not after today." Greg said. Somehow, he was sure Grissom knew about the episode by now. "It never happened before. I don't know why I blew up at Nick like that."

"That was excusable. You heard a loud noise that resembled a gunshot. It triggered something horrible in your memory. Anyone in your situation would've reacted the same way."

"I didn't mean to." Greg blurted. "It just came out. You should've seen Nick's face."

"I know. And I don't think he'll take it personal. He, of all people, understands what you're going through. Both of you have more in common than you think."

Greg sat under his hands and looked down into the empty street below. Through the limelight of a lonely lamp post, Grissom could see the helplessness, desperation, confusion, and anguish that consumed Greg.

"You _always_ have a choice." Grissom began. "You are not bound to one path."

"A leap of freedom." Greg muttered defiantly under his breath.

"Greg, it won't free your soul." Grissom said compassionately. "Please come off that ledge."

Greg looked at Grissom squarely in the eye and said, "Do you really care that much about me?"

"Yes." Grissom said.

"Why?" Greg pressed.

"Because you're important." Grissom answered. "You're important to me. You're worth saving, Greg."

Greg was suddenly moved by Grissom's loyalty and affection. No one had ever reached out to him the way Grissom had. It might've had something to do with wanting to survive after all.

A suspenseful few minutes passed.

Greg made his decision. He swung his legs over the wall and got back onto the roof. He could hear Grissom breathe a sigh of relief. Tears welled up in Greg's eyes the moment he stepped onto the safe side of the roof.

"I NEED HELP." Greg cried with eyes brimming with new tears. "I'm sorry, I just need help." He sobbed.

"I know you do. We'll get through this." Grissom said. He was so relieved and glad that, out of pure joy, he gave Greg a hug. It didn't turn out to be awkward one bit. He's always treated Greg like a son. Greg clung to Grissom and continued sobbing into his shirt like a lost child.

"Please don't tell anyone about this." Greg choked. "Please don't tell."

"I won't. No one has to know." Grissom promised.

"I really wasn't going to do it." Greg bawled. "I just came up here to think. I always come up here to think."

"It's going to be ok."

Seeing Greg break down was extremely shocking and upsetting for Grissom. He'd never seen Greg like this. Greg's fragile state of mind worried Grissom. He didn't want to believe that Greg was capable of harming himself. This stunt pretty much proved everything. Greg was a ticking time bomb and there was no telling when or what would set him off.

He was on a path of self-destruction. Grissom was his savior.

End of Chapter 11

Author's Note: Thank you for reading!! Please sign a review if you get a chance!


	12. Party Favors

Chapter 12: Party Favors

"Just like old times, huh?" Nick said while fishing in his locker for a fresh shirt. Clothed in just pants, his bare back was still dotted with water from the shower. He found a shirt and pulled it fashionably over his tanned and chiseled torso.

"Yea, it's been a while since I swam in the sewers of Las Vegas. We should do this more often." Greg joked while sitting on the bench trying to slide a pair of jeans onto his narrow frame. He stood up and buttoned his fly.

"That's true." Nick laughed.

Nick and Greg were assigned a case involving a decayed body clogging the gutters behind the Casino Royale. After carefully removing the body from the gutter, Nick and Greg continued their investigation of the crime scene. Along with the help of the department of sanitation, Nick and Greg gained access to the sewers through a city manhole.

Even with the protection of jumpsuits and rubber accessories, they still couldn't get the stench off their skin. When they finally made it back to the crime lab, no one came within two feet of them because of the smell. People made faces and held their noses when Nick and Greg passed by to the locker rooms.

Nick would say back to the people in a very convincing tone, "What?! I don't smell anything." And this cracked Greg up.

Upon entering the locker room, they gladly shed their filthy jumpsuits and placed them in the biohazard bins in the corner. Someone will eventually take the contents away to be cleaned and sterilized. Even after the jumpsuits were removed, they couldn't get rid of the odor. Apparently, the stubborn smell had absorbed into their hair and clothes. So, they showered and thoroughly lathered themselves with as much soap and shampoo as they possibly could.

Greg dried his upper body and hair off with a towel. While searching for a shirt in his locker, he felt the weight of Nick's eyes on him. Although Greg refused to look in Nick's direction, he knew Nick was staring at the scar. There was nothing Greg could do about the scar. It served as a permanent reminder of how lucky he was to have survived a gunshot wound that nearly killed him.

It was bad enough that Nick completely outshined him when it came to physical fitness. Nick had the body of a Greek God and a six pack so tight that one could bounce a quarter off of it. Greg was rather envious of his friend's perfectly chiseled body. In comparison, Greg considered himself more of a stick figure. But that was most due to the fact that he'd lost a tremendous amount of weight in the aftermath of being shot. He'd been struggling to get his health back ever since. Embarrassed by his gaunt frame, Greg quickly put on a t-shirt.

Nick caught sight of a small bottle placed on the top shelf of Greg's locker. It appeared to be some sort of prescription drug. There was a white sticker label with words on it but they were too small for Nick to read from where he stood. He thought it odd that Greg should be taking any form of medication at this stage. Many months have passed since the release from the hospital and Greg should not be reliant on drugs anymore. The wound should've healed and the pain should be gone.

Drug addiction was a serious subject for Nick. He'd been addicted to codeine while dealing with his injuries. It was not something that was easy to shake. He remembered how rough it was to get over the addiction. Seeing Greg pop pills like he was popping candy really made Nick uncomfortable and gave him all the more reason to worry. He didn't want Greg to have to go through the same thing he went through.

"What's this?" Nick said as he swiped the bottle off the shelf without giving Greg a chance to stop him.

"Hey! Give it back!" Greg demanded. He made several attempts to grab the container from Nick.

"Benzodiazepine?" Nick sounded surprised. It wasn't what he'd expect to read off the label.

"Come on. Quit joking around. It's not funny. Give it back." Greg insisted.

"Greg, why are you taking benzodiazepine?" Nick asked with a serious look on his face.

"None of your business. Now give it." Greg said impishly. He held out his hand.

"Benzodiazepine is an anti-anxiety drug. Greg, what's going on?" Nick said.

"I have problems." Greg retorted. He meant it as a joke but realized that Nick was dead serious and not in the mood for antics or smart-ass replies.

"I'm not giving it back until you explain." Nick pried.

Greg should have known he couldn't keep this secret from his friends forever. "I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want anyone to worry."

"What's this about?" Nick pressed.

"I've been going through a very difficult time lately – depression, anxiety, just about everything." Greg said gloomily. He sighed heavily and confessed. "Grissom gave me the name of a good private psychiatrist and I've been going there three times a week for the past two weeks – Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays."

"That's great!" Nick said excitedly. "A step in the right direction."

"In addition to the therapy, he prescribed me a small dose of Benzodiazepine to help with the anxiety. So that I don't freak out like I did last time, remember?" Greg said.

"As I recall, you nearly gave me a black eye." Nick reminisced humorously. He said and tossed the bottle back to Greg, who caught it with his right hand.

"Geez, you're always getting into my stuff." Greg muttered irritably as he tucked the small bottle of pills back into his pocket. "What can I say? I was a danger to everyone, including myself." He didn't mean to let that last part slip.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nick grew serious.

"Er – nothing." Greg dismissed uncomfortably. "So, do you think Catherine and Warrick are back yet?" He sat on the bench and pulled up his tube sock.

"Don't change the subject." Nick shot back. "Did something happen?"

Greg remained silent.

"Did you try to – hurt yourself?" Nick took a step closer to Greg.

Greg shrugged. He continued to tie his shoelaces.

"Greg!" Nick gasped. His eyes were big and glossy. He didn't need a verbal answer from because Greg's body language made things pretty obvious. "What'd you do?" Nick almost didn't want to know.

Greg looked up at Nick.

"It's _me_ you're talking to. You can tell me anything." Nick said and took a seat next to Greg.

"Fine. I was gonna take a swan dive off the roof." Greg blurted and pointed towards the ceiling. "But Grissom found me and – and talked me out of it. There, happy now? Now you know. Just don't go blabbing your mouth to everyone about this."

At that moment, Nick felt his heart hit the bottom of his stomach. "Oh my God! How long ago was this?"

"Several weeks - practically ancient history by now." Greg said. "I learned not to be embarrassed by what I did – well, not that muchanyway. My psychiatrist said I need to face the truth and accept it. And I'm trying." He rambled.

As if once wasn't enough, Nick realized he had almost lost his friend - again. Hearing the news made Nick reel with an array of emotion. He felt so many things that he wasn't sure which one to settle on. The selfish rage in him wanted to blast out, "What the fuck were you thinking Greg?! How could you even think about committing suicide!? Don't you give a shit about how broken our lives would be if you'd done that?" Yet his soft, compassionate side wanted to say, "Why Greg? Why? Why was life so horrible that you wanted to end it so badly?"

Nick looked like he was about to cry.

"I'm ok now. Or at least, I'm heading towards ok." Greg offered.

"You tried to kill yourself." Nick gushed in semi-anguish. He was still in shock.

"Maybe if it wasn't for Grissom, I wouldn't still be here today." Greg said in all honesty.

"It's a big secret to be holding onto." Nick couldn't get the picture of Greg throwing himself off the roof of the crime lab.

"If it's any consolation, I haven't thought about suicide since that day." Greg said. "Between the therapy and the drugs, I think I'm doing well."

"Greg, I treat you like family. You know that, right? You're like a surrogate little brother to me." Nick said. "I don't think you understand how much I care about you. I should've known something like this could happen. You haven't been yourself since getting shot."

"Nick…" Greg began.

"You mean a lot to us and I'm not just talking about on the job. You're a part of us just as much as we're a part of you. It would completely crush us if anything happened to you." Nick declared. "I know I should have told you this before but you know me, I've never been real good at pouring out my feelings."

"I'm sorry you guys had to worry so much. I didn't mean for it to go this far. Something in me is not right. I've known it for a while. But I just never wanted to admit it, I guess." Greg said.

"Wish you coulda came to me about it." Nick said. "We're best buds and we look out for each other. It's what we do. You're never alone. Some days can feel like nothing's going right. But I want you to know that you can always count on me. You _can_ come to me – with anything. Ok?"

Greg nodded.

"Good, now we better hurry up and finish getting dressed." Nick looked at his watch.

* * *

With hair still damp, they left the locker room and sauntered up the stairs. They passed the corridor that lead into the hall. The first thing Greg noticed was that the halls were empty. There seemed to be no one around. The night shift had fewer employees than the day shift, but there should be a few people walking around at least. Was this some sort of joke?

The labs were empty but the machines and equipment were still running. An unusual deafening silence resonated throughout the crime lab. Greg wondered what was going on.

"Hey, where is everybody?" Greg asked Nick. "Was there a fire drill we didn't know about?"

"Ha ha, good one Greg. That's funny. Fire drill." Nick mused as they continued walking.

"Er…weren't we supposed to go to the fiber lab to see what those fabric strands we found at the crime scene are?" Greg jogged a little to catch up with Nick's pace.

"Yep." Nick said.

"But we just passed the fiber lab." Greg thumbed behind him.

"We're not goin' there yet." Nick said.

"Oh, then we're going to audio-video." Greg assumed. "Archie's working on the 911 call. He's real quick with these things. Good idea to start with him."

"No, we're not going there either." Nick replied.

"No? Then where _are_ we going?" Greg sounded confused.

"You'll see." Nick said.

"Nick, what's going on?" Greg finally said.

Nick stopped in his tracks and faced Greg. "Ok, I'll tell you what's going on. Keep in mind that I'm only telling you in advance because I know you're on edge and a little sensitive to loud and sudden noises. It may ruin the fun but the last thing I want is for you to spaz out on me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Greg said in a perplexed tone.

"There's a surprise party waiting for you in the lounge. Well, not much of a surprise now, since you know about it, but still, it's a party."

"What? A party for me? Why?" Greg gasped in astonishment. "What's this mean? I don't need a party."

"I always knew you were more of a wall-flower than the life of a party." Nick laughed.

"If you think this is some sort of secret way to discourage me from harming myself – I hate to tell you this, but it doesn't work that way." Greg stammered.

"Relax. It's not about that at all. Besides, we had this party planned for a while now – just didn't have time to put it together." Nick said. "We know you don't like to be put on the spot, but we want to show you how important you are to us."

"Ok but a party is a bit overboard, don't you think?"

"When you were hanging on by a thread, we spent a lot of time by your bedside just thinking. Me, Grissom, Warrick and Catherine, we sat there watching you sleep. All of us realized something during that time. Our friendships are so strong that we've surpassed the concept of just co-workers. We're family. We love and care about each other way too much." Nick confessed. "We couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

Greg was a little stunned by the sudden display of honesty and affection. He didn't know what to say or how to react.

"Come on, it's nothing extravagant - just a little get together among good friends and some food." Nick said while patting Greg on the back. "There's cake." He enticed, as if that would be the very incentive to change Greg's mind about a party.

"You guys really didn't have to go through so much trouble on account of me." Greg finally found his voice.

"We haven't." Nick said. "Look, its ok. You may be the star of the show but you can stay behind the curtains if you like."

"It just feels weird." Greg said.

"Don't worry, I promise you won't have to wear a party hat." Nick laughed.

"Gee thanks." Greg sighed.

They continued to walk down the hall and turned the corner. Greg could see through the window that the lights in the lounge were on and there were about thirty or so people scattered around the room. A soft hum of conversation and a few jovial laughs erupted among the attendees. Greg noticed the tables were removed from the center of the room and placed against the wall. The room looked twice as big. Atop the red and white checkered table cloth, an array of hot and cold food was laid out elegantly on big platters. Paper plates, cups, napkins, utensils and other condiments were neatly organized at the end of one table.

Nick and Greg were greeted by smiles upon entering the room. Greg was then flooded with handshakes, hugs, and kind words from other employees and lab technicians. Even the small talk seemed a bit overwhelming for Greg. He was not used to getting so much attention.

With a cup of ginger ale in her hands, Catherine sashayed across the room and came to a stop in front of Nick and Greg.

"Mmm, very good Nicky. You smell like sunshine." Catherine jested as she sniffed at Nick.

"Oh, ha." Nick said with a smirk.

"We were wondering what was taking you guys so long." Warrick said as he made his way over.

"Hey, why don't you take a dip in sewer water and see how long it takes you to get the smell out." Nick threw back. Warrick raised his cup in a mock toast and laughed.

"How ya doin'?" Warrick shot at Greg.

"Ok." Greg replied uncomfortably. "Er…nice party." He managed to say.

"Yea. We've had office parties before but I think this is the first time everyone attended." Warrick said.

Greg looked around and it was true. Everyone in the night shift showed up, right down to the assistants and interns. He couldn't think of one person that was missing.

"See, there are that many people who respect and appreciate you, Greg." Catherine said and took a sip of her drink.

Greg scanned the room for Grissom and spotted him near the window engulfed in conversation with another supervisor. Knowing Grissom, it was probably work-related.

"We had to revise the whole idea of a surprise party for you." Warrick said. "We had to take the surprise out of the surprise."

"Yea, imagine all of us hiding in the dark and yelling "surprise" at you when you came in." Catherine said.

"It wouldn't have been a pretty sight." Greg patted his chest. "Not good for the heart at all."

"Definitely not for someone who has been through what you have been through." Nick said.

"I'm glad you gave me a warning." Greg said.

Grissom finally came over and greeted Greg with a smile. He could tell Greg was rather uncomfortable about having a party done in his honor but this was long overdue. Greg had always been an important member of the "family." He needed to see that.

"Surprise!" Grissom said cheerfully.

"Ah, so now I know why Catherine and Warrick got the crispy critter at the country club and we got stuck with the swamp thing in the sewers behind the Casino Royale." Greg said.

"Well, we needed time to set up." Grissom said innocently.

Greg smiled.

"Hey Greg, you hungry?" Nick said as his attention diverted to the food on the table. "I don't know about you but pulling that body out of the gutter has worked me up an appetite." He tugged Greg over to the food.

"Wow, this must've been one hefty price tag." Greg mumbled as he took a plate.

He stared at the endless platters of all sorts of gourmet food. He saw a variety of sandwiches, salads, and fruit. On the next table had everything from fried chicken to barbequed ribs to grilled vegetables to fancy little stuffed hors d'oeuvres and more. The next table held trays of all sorts of baked goods - tarts, sweet breads, cookies, and other pastries. There was a square cardboard box tied up with a thin pink ribbon on the far end of the table. Greg guessed that to be a cake. And the last table was a beverage station. Everything was organized and garnished with sophistication. The catering really paid off. There seemed to be enough food to feed a small army. Greg thought this must be the reason why everyone showed up – for the food!!

"Tell ya a secret." Nick said as he spooned a helping of potato salad onto his plate. "All this…" He eyed the table. "Ecklie." He licked some mayonnaise that had smeared on his thumb.

"Ecklie?!" Greg gasped a little too loudly. He drew back and nearly dropped his plate. "You mean _Conrad_ Ecklie?" He asked.

"That's the only Ecklie I know. Thank God." Nick said and used the tongs to gather some leafy green salad onto his plate.

"Really?? Ecklie did all this?" Greg still couldn't believe it.

"Hold on." Nick turned to Greg. "Don't give Ecklie all the credit now. They say the department's springing for the tab. All he did was gave clearance for the party to happen." He nodded to Grissom, who was busy talking to some other people. "I suspect this whole thing was Grissom's idea. He won't fess up to it but we kinda know."

It was typical of Grissom to do this for Greg. But Ecklie? Ecklie was so tight on the department budget that he wouldn't even consent to allowing expenses for an extra box of latex gloves unless they truly needed it. Ecklie was never seen as the compassionate type. He was a puzzle. No one could figure him out. Everyone was convinced that Ecklie had a heart of stone especially since he became the Assistant Director of the Crime Lab. He used his power to demote and spite people simply because he could. Basically, he was being a real son of a bitch.

But oddly enough, when times were critical, Ecklie managed to set all the differences aside and gathered all the resources needed to get the job done. Although he proved himself worthy of this when Nick was kidnapped and buried alive, he had his pompous bureaucratic ways of denying his involvement. Ecklie was believed to be the type of person who didn't care about others – particularly Grissom's close knit team. He was in it only for himself and whatever benefits he could gain from it.

Greg was a little shocked at Ecklie's sense of humanity. Perhaps he was not completely evil. If the Grinch was able to become whole-hearted and loving, maybe there was hope for Ecklie yet! Grissom must've twisted his arm behind his back for this little piece of luxury.

"Where did the department get the money? I thought we were in a recession. We can't afford this." Greg said in a near whisper. His eyes wandered around the slivers of sandwiches and settled on roast beef.

"If you ask me, I don't think this came out of the department. The department doesn't have deep enough pockets." Nick said. "Ecklie wouldn't touch the budget. We're lucky to be granted the time to have this party. He's usually the one cracking the whip behind us. You know how he is about slackers." He reached for the herb roasted lamb chops and grilled vegetables.

"Then who?" Greg said. He studied Nick's face for a minute. "No way!!! Grissom?" His voice gasped.

Nick didn't have to give an answer. The look in his eyes was all the confirmation Greg needed. "Let's not jump to conclusions here. I'm not a hundred percent sure." Nick replied. A few other people came to the table to get some food. Nick lowered his voice and leaned towards Greg. "I heard things from people – office gossip. I don't think he wants anyone to know."

Grissom hated being in the spotlight as much as Greg. He would rather anonymously foot the bill and let people guess then claim recognition for his generosity. Greg admired and respected Grissom for his noble ways.

"Come on Greggo, don't be shy. Dig in. You've been eating like a mouse lately. How else are you going to beef up?" Nick slightly flexed his biceps. "You're going to have to do better than that little sandwich." He nodded towards Greg's bare plate.

Greg followed Nick's lead and took some potato salad followed by some lamb chop. Aside from spicy Mexican food, he had an extreme weakness for buffalo wings. He could smell it a mile away. And at that moment, his nose did not fail him. Like as if by magic, a big aluminum tray brimming with buffalo wings stood on the table. Thin steam wisped from the perfect gold colored buffalo wings and filled the air with a mixture of spices. He had never seen so many buffalo wings stacked in one tray. He never told anyone it was one of his favorites. But someone obviously knew. He stared at the tray for a few seconds before placing half a dozen buffalo wings and a big dab of blue cheese dressing on his plate.

When they were done collecting food from the buffet tables, they headed back to the rear of the lounge and found a place to sit. Nick's plate had been filled to the top leaving no empty spaces. Greg had forgotten how hungry he was. The food was good and quickly devoured.

Everyone in the room were either talking or eating. There was a lot of conversation and laughing. It was probably the first time in years that the whole night shift got together for a meal. Greg, who was standing near Catherine, caught a glimpse of Grissom. Grissom was by himself leaning his back against the counter in the far end of the room. He had his arms crossed and watched everyone. Greg noticed a hint of a smile creeping across Grissom's face. The salt and pepper beard hid it well. It was a contented smile of approval like as if he was quite pleased with himself.

Greg's attention was suddenly stolen by Archie and Henry, who came over to shoot the breeze. Caught in a tumult of goofing and jokes, Greg didn't realize that Grissom had moved to the front of the room.

"Everyone, may I please have your attention?" Grissom called. He had a cup of soda in his hands. The chatter eventually died down and heads turned around.

"Greg? Can you come here for a minute?" Grissom asked. Greg immerged from behind his group of friends looking more frightened than a chicken entering a slaughter house.

"Grissom, is this really necessary?" Greg whispered.

"It'll be fine, Greg." Grissom spoke softly. The other people gathered around circling Grissom and Greg. Grissom took an extra cup of soda and placed it in Greg's hands.

"As supervisor of the night shift, I want to take this moment to thank all of you for coming. In our busy schedules, the opportunity to have a meal together like this is very rare." Grissom paused. "But tonight, we finally get to match names to the faces of those we work with instead of hiding behind computer screens and talking through email." He said wistfully. A few giggles erupted somewhere in the clump of personnel.

"Often times, we forget how much we rely on each other to get things done. We are a team - working towards one goal. We strive to bring justice and make a difference in people's lives." Grissom said. "Here at the lab, it is the power and ability of the people with different areas of expertise that make a case solvable. No matter how great or small, everyone contributes. If you really think about it, we are each other's support. I don't want any of you to forget that. We're in this together."

Grissom glanced briefly at Greg then continued. "Sometimes it takes a great life changing event to make someone realize how they take certain things for granted. It's true what they say – you never know what you treasure most until it's gone. I'm sure all of you are aware of what happened to Greg here. Besides Nick, I'd say he's been through more than any of us can ever imagine. And I must admit that in the past, we've all been extremely tough on him. I hope he won't take it too personal."

Greg could feel the tips of his ears burn in a bright shade of red. Dozens of eyes were suddenly on him.

"Most of you know Greg from his old lab days. And if you've ever had the opportunity to work with him, you know what I mean when I say he's a thoroughbred among mutts. We're used to giving him evidence bag after evidence bag to process. We've worked him like a machine. But he's always come through for us. I have to admit that some of us are slow at showing how much we appreciate his efficiency."

Greg blushed at the compliment and stared at the floor to avoid eye contact.

"Coming so close to losing this valuable member of the team, really opened my eyes. In reflection, I have come to appreciate Greg for who he is and what he means to our team. This party was done in Greg's honor. But I want you all to know that your functions here are important. I am glad we got finally got a chance to gather during this occasion. Have a good meal and enjoy each other's company."

Grissom cleared his throat. The seriousness in his tone left his voice and he offered a smile. "With that being said, I would like to make a toast." He raised his cup. "Here's to Greg. We're glad he's a part of our dynamic team. And may all of us continue to put our best foot forward." Everyone chimed in agreement and raised their cups and soda cans in the air.

After the cake, the party started to dissipate and people trickled back into their posts. Warrick and Nick took refuge on the sofa chairs in the rear of the room as they digested their meal by laughing off at jokes. Catherine was standing outside of the room with a cell phone huddled in her ear. No doubt she was checking up on Lindsay. Grissom and Greg stood side by side next to the refrigerator watching the people leave the room in such a cheery manner. The noise had died down with the exception of a few lingering persons fishing at the leftovers.

"It wasn't Ecklie." Greg broke the silence between him and Grissom.

"What do you mean?" Grissom said.

"I mean, this whole party was your idea. It was all you. You paid for everything." Greg said. "Ecklie may have given the green light to conduct a party, but this had nothing to do with him."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Grissom said curiously.

"Well, the abundance of buffalo wings kind of gave it away." Greg grinned. "There's really only one person who knows I like buffalo wings and that's my mom. I don't remember ever telling anyone else. And I do know you keep in touch with my mom. I'm guessing she must've mentioned it somewhere along the way. Moms are always doing that – talking about their kids."

"Very clever." Grissom hid the smile that was already forming on his lips.

"No, I just pay attention." Greg said while tracing Grissom's words.

"That sounds like something I would say." Grissom retorted with a raised eyebrow.

"Learned it from the best." Greg said. They chuckled lightly.

"Hey Grissom?" Greg said after a pause.

"Hmm?"

"Thanks." Greg said. "For everything."

"Don't mention it."

"No one's ever done anything like this for me."

"You deserve it."

Tears were building behind Greg's dark brown eyes as he looked at Grissom. He was touched by the affection that his supervisor had shown. He looked away when Grissom caught his stare. Greg didn't want Grissom to see the tears in his eyes.

"It's a new beginning, Greg. Things are gonna be ok. You'll see." Grissom said with conviction in his voice.

"Thank you." Greg choked. "I won't let you down."

_The End? Or is this The Beginning?_

Author's Note: Thank you for following my story!! This is the last chapter to Bad Timing. Hope you have enjoyed it! I'm working on a new one and will post soon!


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